


For Every Hunter A New Life

by thepopeisdope



Series: For Every Angel a Family [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: (but with chapter by chapter warnings for mpreg content to keep things chill), Alpha Castiel, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel Dean Winchester, M/M, Mpreg, Omega Dean, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2018-10-21 09:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10682586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepopeisdope/pseuds/thepopeisdope
Summary: If there’s one thing Dean would have expected in that length of time after having averted an apocalypse, it would have been… Well. Something. For everything to stay the same after an event like that would just be lackluster. And yet here they are, waiting for the other shoe to drop in Heaven, but otherwise living like nothing is happening.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Helloooo friends! How are you? Long time no see! In case you haven't been able to figure it out going by my long ass gaps in posting anything, I have horrible time management skills! I want to say right off the bat that this isn't the start of a regular updating schedule, but I do want to try to get to that as soon as possible. As soon as I figure out reasonably balancing work and school, I should get there. Fingers crossed. 
> 
> Also, a quick poll for the audience, if you don't mind? What is the general feeling on adding tags to fics as the fic progresses? Anything horrible like MCD would be marked right off the bat if this was where that was going, of course (it's not), but there were a couple more characters I was thinking of tagging (how important is a character catalog?) and a couple tags which can be added right away, or can wait for their respective reveals, to at least benefit those of you who might read this on a week-to-week basis. Leave your thoughts in the comments--I'd greatly appreciate it. (Also - rating will most likely go up, for what that matters.) :)
> 
> This fic brought to you in part by my favorite Australian, [Ari](https://willowywings.tumblr.com/), a beautiful person and a wonderful beta. (Seriously, she's at least 80% responsible for the creation of this fic in general, go thank her.)
> 
> I think that's all I had to say. So without further ado. 
> 
> Please enjoy. 
> 
> (I love you <3)

“Again.”

Dean dodges the flurry of attacks, warding off each blow with increasing difficulty. He manages to break away enough to heave in a few lungfuls of air and tries to catch his breath.

“Again!”

There’s a flash of gold, a glint of silver. Dean parries, punches—and is sent sprawling with an (admittedly well-timed) kick to the center of his chest. He hits the ground hard and slides several feet back, sending snow spraying up in every direction.

It takes a long second for the steady ache of it to set into Dean’s chest, but when it does, he groans. He doesn’t try to get up, instead surrendering himself to the cold bite of the snow. He can already feel that his flannel is soaked. “God damnit.”

From the other side of the yard, closer to Bobby’s house, there’s a heavy sigh.

“Gabriel, enough. This obviously isn’t the most effective way of encouraging him to manifest his blade.”

Gabriel turns, his hands on his hips. “Oh, because you’ve trained so many fledglings, right, Cassie? You know how this goes?”

Dean grits his teeth and pushes to his feet. “I’m not a _fledgling_ , jackass.” He stretches out his wings, shaking them free of the snow that had accumulated in the ridges of his feathers when he was knocked down. He flicks some of it in Gabe’s direction out of spite, though the archangel easily blocks it with his own wing. “And besides, pretty sure you only had _one_ fledgling, ever. So it’s not like _you’ve_ trained ‘so many fledglings’, either. But nice try.”

The sass earns him a hard glare from Gabe, but it also gets him a bright grin from Cas, which is what’s important. Dean moves toward his husband, brushing his wings against Cas’ when he’s in range. It’s a form of comfort he’s gotten used to over the last couple months, a soft touch that never fails to warm him to his core. It distracts him from Gabe, and he smiles back at Cas.

Until Gabe smacks him upside the head with his wing, that is.

“Hey!”

“ _Gabriel_ —”

The archangel holds up a hand to silence them both, irritation flashing through his eyes. “No. I know you two are so far up each other’s asses that the rest of the world doesn’t mean shit, but I’m not going to stand around and waste time— _important time_ —while the two of you rub wings and act like teenagers. You—” He points at Cas as he barks the word. “—need to back off. I will make you leave if need be. I don’t give a damn that you’re his mate, this is not the time to go easy on him. And you—” His finger swings toward Dean, and his eyes narrow further. “—need to try harder. You’re weak and your form is sloppy. If Heaven descends on us tomorrow, you’re not going to be ready.”

Cas is visibly cowed by his brother’s reprimanding, and though Dean hates to admit that it’s because of Gabriel, his own wings droop as well. He objects weakly, “Heaven won’t…”

Gabriel shakes his head. “You don’t know that. Between the investigation into Uriel’s ‘disappearance’ and the fact that I still can’t find anything on that scuzzball Zachariah, we need to be ready at any time. If you find a strange angel on your doorstep tomorrow, their blade out and ready to attack, what are you going to do?”

Dean shrugs, and even though he knows Gabriel has already won the argument, he still replies with levity. “Shout for Cas?”

That earns another snicker from his husband, this time one which doesn’t immediately cut out when Gabriel glares at him. Cas lays a possessive hand on Dean’s shoulder and steps toward his brother, giving the archangel a soft, yet stern look. “Gabriel, come on. Pushing this too hard isn’t going to get any of us anywhere. Besides, you have to remember, Dean is still part human. He doesn’t have the stamina for this.”

Dean scoffs and mutters, “That’s not what you were saying last night.”

Cas just about chokes on his tongue. “ _Dean_.”

“Dad, you two are disgusting,” Gabe groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. It’s a very _Cas_ action, and makes Dean grin. The archangel blows out a rough breath and waves his hand, turning away from them both. “Fine. Fucking _fine_. Go find an empty room to fuck it out in or whatever. I’ll see about trying something new tomorrow. Until then…” He sighs and tips his head back to glare up at the grey sky. “I’ve got a meeting. Cas, I trust you have things under control here?”

At Dean’s side, Cas nods. “Of course.”

Gabriel flaps his wings and disappears without another word.

Dean sighs. “He wasn’t in a bad mood when he got here.” He pouts at Cas. “Am I really that awful? I know I can’t make a blade or whatever, but it’s _hard_ , okay? I’m trying.”

“It’s not your fault,” Cas is quick to assure. He steps in close to Dean, wrapping his arms around his waist and nuzzling into his hair. Idly, Dean wonders which of them that gesture is meant to reassure. “He’s just tense. You don’t know what it’s like up there—all of Heaven is like a string pulled taut, ready to snap at any second. Without knowing what we’re up against, it’s impossible to be ready. When the fight inevitably begins, we’re going to be at the center of it.”

The worst part about that is that Dean knows. Of course he _knows_. It’s been three months since they killed Azazel, and that knowledge has been about the only thing that’s held steady in all that time. Hell hasn’t caused any sort of trouble for them since its leader dropped, and even though no one knows what’s going on down there, that’s enough, generally speaking. As Cas keeps telling him, Hell is always up to something, anyway.

But _Heaven_. Heaven is a completely different story.

For all intents and purposes, Heaven is supposed to be the calm in the center of the storm. Heaven is supposed to be steady, strong and unchanging even as Hell riots and Earth does… whatever it is Earth does. Dean isn’t actually sure. But the point is, as long as Gabriel’s third of Heaven can’t trust the other two thirds, there’s nothing steady about it. And as long as Gabriel’s third is the only one which has been thoroughly vetted…

When shit inevitably goes down, Gabriel will have the only trustworthy, non-infiltrated army to defend Heaven. Michael is a dick, from what Dean gathers, and being kept in the dark about all that’s going on. Raphael is also a dick, but even though he apparently isn’t very forthcoming with information, Gabe trusts him. But three archangels aren’t worth much if all of the lesser angels working beneath two of those three end up revolting.

Cas’ fingers brush through Dean’s hair, pulling him from his thoughts. “I can feel you getting worked up about it, and there’s no need. It’s not great, I know, but we’ll deal with it when the time comes. Don’t let Gabriel get in your head.”

Dean sighs and leans into Cas’ touch. The reassurance doesn’t ease his frown. “I’m a shitty angel if I can’t make the only weapon I have to defend myself.”

“Dean.” Cas catches him by the chin and forces him to meet his eyes, the angel’s soft and understanding. His emotions are hardly out of check, but Dean still feels like that look will be the death of him, and his heart thuds unevenly. Cas continues, “This isn’t worth harassing yourself over. We don’t even know if you _can_ manifest a blade; Gabriel is being unfairly harsh on you, I know, but if you can manifest one, then we need to know. Neither of us has any doubt that you will be able to defend yourself when it comes down to it, but if it’s a fight against angels…”

Dean tips his chin down in a nod. He doesn’t need Cas to finish that sentence—if it comes down to a war between the angels, angels on both sides of the fight are going to die. All they have on their side is Gabe and Cas’ blades, and the Colt, with its limited ammunition; if it comes down to killing angels, that isn’t going to be enough. Having a third blade would at least make things _slightly_ better.

“Alright,” Dean says, brushing his wings along the soft, inner feathers of his mate’s. It’s a movement that he lacked the dexterity for just a month or so prior—he’s only continued to get better at using his wings in the time since he first sprouted them, which is a relief, considering he’s failing miserably in just about every other aspect of his other angel training. And Cas likes it too, which is good. If Dean wants to win him over and change the subject, this is a surefire way to do it.

As if intentionally proving his point, Cas’ wings curl over his almost instantly, and he practically purrs in satisfaction to boot. He drops a hand to Dean’s hip and curls his fingers through the belt loop of his jeans, then leans in to nuzzle into Dean’s neck. The purr takes on the edge of a growl, and Cas reeks of self-satisfaction and happiness.

Alphas. Weird, possessive, adorable sons of bitches.

Dean chuckles softly before continuing with what he was going to say a moment ago, “I’m still going to try, though. With the blade. It might not happen, but until we know for sure, I have to try.” He lets out a breath and shakes his head. “Maybe I should fire Gabriel as my teacher and just work with you, instead. I don’t care what that jackass says, I _know_ it’ll be easier.”

“You’re too comfortable with me,” Cas refutes, a perfect echo of his brother despite the fact that his words are mumbled against the side of Dean’s head, “we would never get anything done and you know it.”

Dean shrugs. He wants to put in his best effort, sure, but… well. More time with Cas can never hurt.

They both look up a moment later at the unmistakable sound of tires crunching over the snow-packed gravel, signaling a car arriving on Bobby’s property. They’re standing on the wrong side of the house to be able to see, but given the timing, Dean doesn’t need to see to know who it is. He grabs Cas’ wrist and tugs him along to circle around the house. The angel would follow him anyway, of course, but Dean just wants to touch him and have him close; sue him.

The car—an ugly, black, brand new Dodge Charger—pulls to a stop just as Dean and Cas get a line of sight on it. The engine has hardly stopped before Jess wrenches the passenger door open and practically falls out into the snow. She stumbles to her feet, casts a quick look around, glares back into the car, and then bolts for the house, white powder flying up behind her with every step.

“Is she…” Cas hedges in close to Dean’s side and whispers in his ear, “What just happened?”

Dean whispers back with a frown, “No friggin’ clue.” He moves toward the car, watching warily as Sam climbs out of the driver’s side. Sam, at least, doesn’t look like he’s going to hurl, even if he does look a bit paler than usual.

Sam stares after Jess with a grimace. The door had slammed shut in her wake, but thanks to his upgraded angel hearing, Dean can still hear Bobby’s shout of surprise, as well as Jess’ hurried steps to the bathroom—another door which gets slammed shut.

“Sammy,” Dean calls, and his brother winces. He looks over at Dean as if he hadn’t noticed he was there, and awkwardly pushes his long hair out of his face. Dean’s frown only deepens. “She okay?”

“Food poisoning,” Sam replies with a sigh. He rubs at his forehead, looking uncomfortable. “She… might be blaming me for it. She wanted to stop in somewhere for lunch, but I didn’t want to lose time on the road so we hit a drive-thru, and… Well.” He gestures lamely toward the house. “She’s been like this for a good couple of hours, now.”

“You chose the drive-thru?”

“…Yeah.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

Cas sighs, interrupting their banter. “I will… see if I can assist,” he says, then heads up to the porch and disappears into the house.

Sam looks visibly relieved, and calls after him, “You’re a life saver, Cas!”

Dean just catches Cas’ rumbling laugh as his husband gets too far into the house to be clearly heard, and it makes him smile. It’s one of his favorite sounds. Now certainly isn’t the time to dwell on that, though, so Dean turns back to Sam with a teasing grin. “You owe him so big.”

Although Sam scoffs, Dean can see in his eyes that he knows. It’s not the first time Jess has been sick, since they all moved into Bobby’s house basically full time. The other time was over one three-day span when Cas had had to tag along with Gabe to deal with some issue up in Heaven, so there hadn’t been any angelic reprieves available until the worst of it had already passed.

It was so miserable, that Bobby flat-out vanished for a week on a ‘hunt’, just to escape. If Dean didn’t love his brother as much as he does, he probably would have done the same.

(He still doesn’t believe that Bobby actually left for a hunt, for the record. The old bastard was just too squirrelly to cope with Jess throwing up and whining her misery for all to hear.)

Dean puts his hands in his pockets and grins. “So, how was the hunt? I take it you guys got it cleared out alright?”

Sam nods. “Yeah, it was simple. Just a vamp nest, like we thought. It was easy enough to wipe them out. Jess is crazy with a katana, dude, you should see it sometime.”

“I’m happily married already, but thanks, Sammy.”

Sam splutters for a moment, then shoves at Dean’s shoulder. “That’s not what I—shut _up_ , Dean.”

Dean grins. “Hey man, I’m not shaming you for what you’re into. Hot chicks with swords? _Nice_. I just happen to have a hot _dude_ with a sword.”

“You’re obnoxious,” Sam mutters with a scowl. He perks up after that, though, asks with an unmistakable note of hope, “Speaking of swords, how did yours go? You were going to work on it some more after you and Cas tackled that wendigo mess in Montana, right?”

Instead of answering verbally, Dean twists his wrist in the gesture Gabriel has been coaching him through, and visualizes himself materializing his blade. He thinks he might feel a tingle in there somewhere, but unsurprisingly, his palm remains empty.

Sam makes a sympathetic face. “Damn. What about the wendigos?”

“Three. Cas and I vaporized them, didn’t even break a sweat.”

Cas, of course, chooses that moment to reappear, his wings still spread as he lands next to Dean. He raises an eyebrow at his husband. “Strangely enough, that’s now how I remember it. I’m fairly certain I recall listening to you complain about not only sweat, but also dirt, blood, and the sharpness of wendigo claws. I think a sweat was, indeed, broken.”

Dean glares at him, ignoring Sam’s laugh of, “And the truth comes out!”

Damn traitors, the both of them.

Before Dean can give Cas shit for ratting him out, though, Jess walks out of the house and, after a quick glare in her boyfriend’s direction which instantly has Sam choking on his laughter, makes her way over to Dean to pull him into a hug.

“I already said hi to Cas,” she explains, then pulls back with a grin. “Good to see you. What was that I heard about wendigos? Your hunt go alright?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean can see that Cas is about to answer that question for him—undoubtedly to make fun of him—so he rushes to say, “Wendigos died, people were saved, that’s what matters. How was your gig?”

“It was great!” Jess says, lighting up as she launches into an overview of her and Sam’s hunt. Thankfully, no one brings up wendigos again.

Dean still might have to get Cas back for that later.

The four of them stand outside for a while before the chill of the snow gets to Sam and Jess and forces them all in. They talk about their hunts, and then Gabe and Dean’s training, before the conversation ultimately devolves into senseless small talk, a little of everything. They chat and laugh and tell stories, and Cas’ wing is layered over the top of Dean’s all the while.

Dean doesn’t think he’s ever been happier in his life.

 

~

 

Dinner that night is a surprisingly edible stew thrown together by Bobby, who it turns out—now that he regularly has company to cook for—actually has a chef buried inside of him somewhere. Afterwards, Dean takes dish-duty, gathering up all the plateware and whipping the kitchen back into shape. Sometimes Sam and Jess take the job when they’re around, but Dean does it more often than not when Bobby cooks, to show his thanks. Sometimes Cas helps, other times now. Judging by the fact that he was deep in conversation with Jess about the intricacies of personal ethics and morals in hunting while they ate (and the fact that Dean can still hear the steady rumble of Cas’ voice coming from the living room), he figures he’s on his own for tonight.

Not that that’s a problem, of course. Dean loves having Cas around at all times, obviously, but he also loves seeing him interact with the other members of their family. He loves seeing Cas be _domestic_. Normal. Sociable.

The fact that Cas seems to be particularly good friends with Jess warms his heart even further. He’s glad that the two appreciate each other.

Plus, being alone in the kitchen with nothing but a pile of dirty dishes gives Dean the opportunity to just think, and sort through all the varied emotions of the day. He visualizes putting a bird cage around his mind before he does it, an exercise he’s been working on with Cas to practice controlling whether or not he’s broadcasting all of his thoughts to his husband across their bond.

A bird cage, he reasons, keeps the thoughts contained to his own space, but doesn’t close them off from Cas, if the angel decides he wants to take a peek for whatever reason. He’s learned that closing off his mind completely, such as when he visualizes the Impala’s glove compartment or trunk, is noticeable across the bond and typically sparks Cas’ paranoia. It’s better to keep things at least somewhat transparent, when possible.

As Dean gets to work, his wings out but tucked loosely against his back and his arms wet with sink water and sudsy to the elbows, he lets his mind wander back to his latest training session with Gabriel. Gabe might make a shitty Professor X, but, Dean supposes, that’s not totally his fault. It’s really only been a few months since Cas gave Dean his grace. Three months, in fact. How far can _anyone_ have been expected to get in that small frame of time? Even Cas had years upon years to train and hone his craft, being literally raised into it as he was.

And that’s another thing.

It’s been _three months_.

If there’s one thing Dean would have expected in that length of time after having averted an apocalypse, it would have be… Well. _Something_. For everything to stay the same after an event like that would just seem lackluster. And yet here they are, waiting for the other shoe to drop in Heaven, but otherwise going on with their lives like nothing else is happening.

Sam and Jess hunt more than Dean and Cas do, but that’s mainly because Dean is still working through his X-Men training to learn how to be a Real Angel. He’s doing pretty well with it, with the exception of his nonexistent ability to make a blade. He can fly short distances, though he does best when tagging along with Cas. When attempting flights on his own, he’s taken to using the practice opportunities to torment Sam—which always leads to his brother’s pissed off shouts about Dean’s ‘bullshit angel apparating’ echoing across Bobby’s property in some way or another. Chance to now continually mess with Sam aside, Dean has also learned to put his wings away and make them appear again without issue. Of course, he still has points that need improvement—like the fact that he can’t yet manage to fly anywhere without his wings being visible before and after the flight, despite Cas’ claims it shouldn’t make a difference—but he knows that sort of minor hiccup will improve and gradually lessen with time. He’ll get there.

Another positive is that he and Cas are in a really good spot. They haven’t been in a _bad_ spot yet, necessarily, but things between them are still great. They’ve traded up for a bigger, softer bed in Dean’s room at Bobby’s house, since that’s where they usually stay when they’re not actively on a hunt, and whenever they have sex (which is often, Dean is pleased to report), Cas flies them off somewhere so that they can be as loud and rough as they want, without having to break the rule of no sex under Bobby’s roof—which they’re both pretty sure he would still enforce.

Not that going somewhere else for sex has been anywhere near a problem. Last night, Dean had been too tired from his training (he still sleeps even though he’s mostly angel, albeit lightly) to be up for more than a blowjob in the shower, but the night _before_ … He thinks Cas had said they were in the Swiss Alps, but his memories are too much of a pleasant blur to be sure of the details.

Dean pulls the plug out of the bottom of the sink to let the soapy water drain and dries his hands, satisfied now that all of the dishes have been washed and put on the rack to dry. He turns to exit the kitchen, and nearly jumps out of his skin in surprise.

The absolute last person he was expecting to see was Gabe standing over the kitchen table, currently pouring over a scroll covered in Enochian. The archangel’s wings aren’t visible, which thankfully means he doesn’t take up too much space in the small room, but that also means he’s smaller—it’s reasonable that it took longer than it otherwise should have for Dean to notice him there.

At least, that’s what he tells himself to justify his burst of alarm.

“I thought you said you had a meeting?” he says instead of a greeting, easily moving past the brief moment of shock. He shuffles forward, trying to get a look at Gabe’s scroll even though he knows damn well he can’t read it. His wings shift and rearrange against his back in a show of his curiosity. “Whatcha got there? Check your mail today?”

Gabriel ignores him completely, but looks around him to shout further into the house, “Castiel!”

A tendril of fear weaves its way through Dean. He can tell that the archangel is agitated, and if he’s also calling for Cas directly… It can’t mean anything good. His throat tightens, and he already regrets joking about whatever it is Gabe has turned up with.

Cas enters the kitchen almost immediately after he was called, his eyes going wide at the sight of his brother standing over the table. “Gabriel, why are you—”

“Just shut up and come look at this,” Gabe snaps, and Cas does just that. Dean shrinks back, giving his mate plenty of room to stand next to the scroll and examine its contents. Dean studies them from his new distance, hoping to figure out what’s going on. Cas’ frown is formidable.

Cas’ eyes scan the scroll, his frown growing even deeper. “What is this?”

“ _This_ ,” Gabe says, jabbing a finger at the text, “was intercepted from a cherub being used as a messenger. Don’t know who it was from or who it was for, and the cherub won’t talk. I assume you can figure out what it means?”

Cas glances up at his brother, his eyes hard. Across their bond, Dean can feel nothing but a forced calm.

“It’s a call to action.”

“It’s a call to action,” Gabe repeats, with far more venom lacing the words. “Someone, somewhere, has a rebellion planned, has some attack in the making, and it’s about to hit _now_. And what are we doing?”

“We’ve been waiting—”

“We’ve been wasting time!” Gabe shouts. “The two of us have been dicking around down here for too long, and Heaven is suffering for it! Someone is working against us, and if that angel manages to overthrow us, then having some useless humans and a wannabe angel on our side isn’t going to mean shit!”

The lights in the kitchen all blow simultaneously, but it isn’t clear if that’s Gabe’s doing or Cas’, because at that moment the seraph takes a sharp step forward, wings flaring and eyes flashing. “This is _not_ about—”

Dean doesn’t care to find out how that sentence is going to end, so he clears his throat. Both angels startle as if they’d forgotten he was there. They probably had. He keeps his gaze pointedly averted and makes a lame gesture toward the doorway. “I’m gonna…”

“Dean, wait—”

Dean doesn’t wait. He slips out of the room on silent feet, acting as though he didn’t see Gabriel’s wince, or Cas’ hand extended in his direction. He steps into his boots beside the front door but doesn’t bother to tie them before heading out.

_Useless_.

_Wannabe angel_.

But fuck, it’s not like that’s _his_ fault. What right does Gabe have to harass him? Dean didn’t ask for any of this. He didn’t ask for Cas to pour his grace into him and make him into this—this _thing_. Hell, he didn’t even ask for _Cas_ in the first place.

That last thought trips Dean up, making him physically stumble as he crosses the doormat on the porch and slams the door closed behind him. He stops moving, eyes shut tight and teeth grinding.

He didn’t ask for Cas. He never thought he could deserve someone like Cas to begin with, even if his soulmate was just a human, same as everyone else. Because Cas is good, and pure, and so goddamn beautiful inside and out that sometimes, when they’re tangled together in the dead of night, sharing space and trading breaths to the point where neither can tell where one of them ends and the other begins—Dean can’t stop himself from tearing up, unable to believe his good fortune.

Dean didn’t ask for Cas, but he _would_. It might be selfish, but if Dean could live a thousand lives, he would ask for Cas in each and every one of them.

He’s not sure what that means in the scope of his internal argument.

Before he can figure it out, he hits the top of the porch stairs, and stops dead in his tracks, exactly on the line of the wards that protect Bobby’s house from strangers. He can only assume that those wards are the reason the unfamiliar angel standing in front of the house is _in front of_ the house, and not _inside_ it. The sight of the stranger makes Dean’s stomach twist and his heart pound simultaneously.

Distantly, he can feel Cas react to his fear and start rushing in his direction. Regardless, Dean turns halfway to shout into the house, not taking his eyes off of the angel with her pale eyes and tidy, silver wings, “Cas!”

Castiel bursts out of the house an instant later, Gabriel right behind him. Both angels stop just as Dean had when they see the newcomer, one of them standing behind each of his shoulders. His wings are pinned tight against his back in fear, but now that Cas and Gabe are there, they twitch with the urge to spread and protect, to hide his family from sight.

At least, that’s his main instinct until Cas lets out a surprised, “Oh.” Dean glances sideways, but before he can make sense of it, Gabriel speaks from his other side.

“Hannah. What happened.”

For the first time since he walked out of the house, Hannah’s eyes shift away from Dean and land on the archangel beside him. Her lips thin, and she takes a deep breath. “Sir… it’s Raphael.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannah straightens her posture even further—a feat, really—and reshuffles her wings. “The situation in Heaven is still developing, but as far as we have been able to determine, Raphael has disappeared.”
> 
> At Hannah’s side, Cas goes stiff. “What do you mean, disappeared?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh.. Hi. How are you? Good? That's good. 
> 
> Long time no see. Sorry about that. I've been kept from this fic by a handful of others (I post a Game of Thrones!AU and a Harlequin Challenge fic and I'm super proud of both, and on top of that, I have an 80k DCBB in the pipeline; at least I didn't vanish for no reason?), but now that those are out of the way, I should be able to write this with more regularity! Aside from the finishing touches on my DCBB, this is my number one priority. Cross my heart. 
> 
> To everyone who commented on the first chapter: thank you, I love you, I meant to reply and then never did because the longer I waited the more awkward I felt doing it. Whoops. And to everyone who has been commenting in the interim (special shout out to 10minutestothedeadline who's especially awesome and leaves comments that make my heart happy): you're awesome. 
> 
> A quick PSA: The rating of this fic has been changed from Mature to Explicit (it was bound to happen eventually, tbh), and the title has been changed to "For Every Hunter A New Life" for... reasons. It's difficult to explain without writing a whole paragraph on it, but. Trust me. It looks the same anyways, right? Near enough. 
> 
> Now, without further ado... 
> 
> Enjoy. <3

Hannah looks awkward standing in the middle of Bobby’s kitchen. Her hair is pulled back into a perfect bun, her wings are slim and straight and neat where they lie against her back, and she keeps smoothing her hands over the front of her grey slacks. She smells clinical, and like the exaggerated sweetness of jarred cherries.

Dean doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like her? He’s not sure, but he doesn’t think it matters, either.

He _really_ doesn’t like how closely Cas is hovering beside her. He had exchanged a friendly smile with the newcomer as she crossed the ward line and touched her shoulder in a way that somehow conveyed the same emotional connection as a hug. Hannah had beamed, silver wings fluffing to convey how pleased she was with the wordless reassurance.

You know what—Dean just doesn’t like her. He’s keeping his thoughts well out of Cas’ range, there’s no need to sugar-coat things. Fuck it.

The petty side of him is happy that, if nothing else, Hannah truly does look out of place in the kitchen. And not just in the sense that she doesn’t match, either—the new angel’s self-satisfaction had drained away shortly after Cas’ touch instilled it, and she looks to be only a hairsbreadth away from full discomfort as she eyes the room around her, wary of every detail. And while Dean may not be completely adept at reading angels’ emotions from their wings, there are only so many ways the tightly-drawn set of her silver wings can be interpreted. It’s part of why he has hidden his own for the time being.

“Hannah,” Gabriel says, effectively drawing Dean out of his ruminations, “Tell us what you know.”

Hannah straightens her posture even further—a feat, really—and reshuffles her wings. “The situation in Heaven is still developing, but as far as we have been able to determine, Raphael has disappeared.”

At Hannah’s side, Cas goes stiff. “What do you mean, _disappeared_?”

“She’s gone,” Hannah repeats, and Dean does the mental equivalent of a double-take over the choice in pronoun. _She_? Cas and Gabe don’t seem to think it’s weird, though, so Dean shakes off his surprise and tunes back into what’s happening. He sees Hannah cast Cas a wary look, seemingly no longer glad to have him so close, then returns her gaze to Gabriel. Both are her superiors, technically, but if Dean had to guess, he’d say it’s probably easier for her to deal with an _actual_ superior instead of the one she clearly deems a friend. She continues with words that sound rehearsed, “She left her post without word to anyone, and either she didn’t tell her direct underlings where she was going, or they’re lying to cover for her.”

Gabriel asks carefully, “Which do you think it is?”

Hannah seems to grow even more uncomfortable. “In my honest opinion… I believe it’s the latter. Sir.”

“So where the hell did she go?” Dean cuts in. “Did she ditch out long term, or is she gonna be back by the end of the week? What kind of a _thing_ is this?”

“I…” Hannah’s eyes cut to Gabriel, who Dean sees nod out of the corner of his eye. The fact that she wanted permission before answering him infuriates Dean—he’s Cas’ _mate_ , for fuck’s sake—but he’s stopped from lashing out by a timely answer to his question, prompting him to bite his tongue instead.

“We suspect she will be back shortly. If we weren’t already watching her so closely, just as we’re watching everyone in a high position right now, then it’s unlikely we would have noticed her absence to begin with. I doubt she wanted her departure noticed; her seraphs panicked in response to our questioning because they were not expecting it.”

“And where did she go?” Cas prompts.

“A sentry claims to have seen her cross the border into Hell.”

There’s a beat of silence in the kitchen.

“Hell,” Sam repeats, and Dean is surprised to remember that he’s still on the opposite side of the kitchen. “You’re sure about that?”

Hannah gives him a withering look. “No. The cherub who reported this wasn’t confident that it was her, because whoever it was, they were making an effort to disguise their grace. We can’t know for sure, but it’s the best that we have.”

“There aren’t a lot of other places she could have gone,” Gabriel comments. Everyone’s eyes shift to him, watching in tense anticipation for his verdict. The archangel runs his tongue across the front of his teeth, a tell for his desire to have some kind of candy to fidget with.

Dean considers the current absence of candy to be the ultimate sign of how important the situation is.

After a moment, Gabriel lets out a rough breath and raises his gaze to the gathered group. He looks to Hannah first, then Cas. “As of right now, we need to consider Raphael to be our enemy. If the call to action we intercepted is legitimate, given its timing with Raphael’s disappearance, we have to assume that she’s a general going into Hell to get reinforcements. This will remain on a need-to-know basis for the time being, but everyone is to be on high alert.” He glances back toward Hannah. “Am I understood?”

Despite looking vaguely as if she might faint, Hannah nods. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. And Cas?” Cas straightens up minutely, shoulders hunching a bit less than usual as Gabriel addresses him. “Until we know exactly what it is we’re facing and where, I’m appointing you commanding general of all Earthbound forces. Sentinel of the Realm, active immediately. Everyone we have is going to be preparing for a fight, but the people we have on Earth are going to be important. I won’t allow us to be flanked, or caught with our pants down.”

An expression of shock crosses Cas’ face at the appointment, but he keeps it well contained, and nods sagely in answer. “I won’t allow us to lose Earth.”

Gabe nods in return. The archangel still doesn’t look entirely satisfied, his nerves obvious in the twitch of a wing, the shifting of his expression—but Dean doubts there’s much else he can say right now. Not when they know so little. Confirming the hunch, Gabriel sighs and swipes a hand through the air. “Right, okay. Meeting adjourned, then. Hannah, assemble the others, I’ll meet you in Heaven when I can.”

The other seraph doesn’t hesitate before spreading her wings and vanishing. Dean can’t say he blames her; even he doesn’t really want to hang out here any longer than he has to. Gabe and Cas are staring at each other in that way that means they’re having some private conversation the humans can’t know about—and not a pleasant one, if the way Cas is glaring is any indication. Bobby mutters something about calling Ellen, and when he goes toward his study, Sam and Jess slide away after him, whispering about the new developments with Heaven as they go.

Taking his cue, Dean starts to follow, too, stepping toward the doorway as quietly as he can manage to avoid disturbing the two remaining angels.

He only makes it halfway before a sigh stops him, and he curses inwardly.

“Dean, wait.”

As much as he wishes he could ignore it, Gabe’s words stall him in place. He turns his head halfway, showing that he’s listening, but he’s not in the mood to give the archangel anything more than that. He’s still sour over being called a wannabe, and now this new heap of stress that Hannah has dumped on them is sitting on his chest, lopsided and leaden despite how much he’s resolutely trying _not_ to think about it.

Cas sidesteps Dean on his way out of the kitchen, pausing beside him only long enough to touch his shoulder and press a kiss to his jaw before continuing on. It’s supposed to be reassuring, he’s sure, a show of support since he knows the issue that had Dean storming out earlier is still far from resolved, but it only serves to heighten Dean’s sense of dread. He has no idea what Cas was talking to his brother about, but the fact that Cas evidently decided he needed to reassure his mate…

Dean doesn’t move, even after Cas has left. He keeps a mental tab on his husband as the angel makes his way out through the house, and when he feels Cas fly off toward Heaven, his stomach drops sharply.

Maybe not a reassurance, then.

Gabriel clears his throat, abruptly reminding Dean of his presence and startling him into turning.

“What I said earlier,” the archangel hedges, and he looks just as uncomfortable as Hannah had, his hands deep in his pockets and his eyes shifting around the room before finally landing on Dean. “I… shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it. You’re a good kid, Dean, and the best thing to ever happen to my brother. You’re not a wannabe. You’re going to be a great angel, one day.”

Dean scoffs. “Gabe—”

“No, just—shut up, Winchester.” Gabriel makes a sharp gesture, and Dean doesn’t protest. “I’m sorry, okay? Let me be sorry. I’m pissed off about this war, and that’s not about to get better, apparently—but you’re still an asset. Michael, Raphael, and all of their angels have no reason to know about you, and that means you can be our wild card. We’ll keep up the training, get you ready to go, and if we get to the eleventh hour, it’ll be good to have you waiting in the wings. You’re smart, too; even if you’re in the wings, you’re a valuable asset, and we’re lucky to have you.”

Dean swallows thickly, his heart in his throat. There’s a twist of warmth in his gut, a small, barely-there note of happiness at the insistence that he might be _useful_ —but as soon as he realizes the true meaning behind Gabe’s words, it’s extinguished as quickly as the casual snuff of a candle. This is just meant to soothe his ruffled feathers from earlier, and to make him more pliant when it comes time for the war to begin and Cas will be kept away from home all the time.

This isn’t about Dean being a _valuable asset_. It’s about him being a nagging househusband that Gabe needs out of the way, needs placated with false assurances of just how _helpful_ he is.

He wonders if Cas asked for his brother to do this, before he left.

“Right,” he growls, because Gabe is still looking at him and expecting a reaction of some kind and he’d hate to disappoint—the archangel’s eyes widen at Dean’s aggressive tone, the low timbre of his voice, the way his shoulders roll in a dead giveaway for the way his wings would be flaring, if he weren’t keeping them restrained and out of sight. “I’m going to be sitting here with my thumb up my ass, waiting for something that’s never gonna happen and lookin’ extra pretty. Roger that.”

“That’s—” The archangel blows out a rough breath, momentarily closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, his wings shuffling and twitching behind him. “ _Dad_ , you’re difficult. I’m being serious, alright?” He looks up, pinning Dean in place with that oddly-golden stare of his. “You’re not going to be sitting with your thumb up your ass, that’s the exact opposite of what I was saying. This is a team, and you’re a part of it. A big one. I trust you more than I trust the humans. You might not know how to be an angel yet, but you’ve got Cas’ grace in there with you. There’s no way you won’t get better.”

Dean groans. “Cas’ grace—”

“Is _you_ r grace. It’s mixed with your soul, on both of your sides. Still, you have at least a cherub’s level of power. Don’t sell yourself short.”

That one renders Dean silent. They haven’t talked much about the weird, grey state he’s in—not fully angel, definitely not human—but to hear that he’s at least on-par with an entire tier of angel, with the demographic that’s the majority of Heaven… It’s more than enough to throw him off.

Taking advantage of Dean’s silence, Gabriel claps a reassuring hand to his shoulder, then steps back, giving Dean a look that’s uncharacteristically serious, and surprisingly fond. “You’re gonna be fine, kid. I’ll still come around to help when I can, and Cas shouldn’t actually be gone too much, so don’t worry about that. He may be Sentinel, but you’re his mate. That’s not worth nothing.”

Dean is so focused on being frustrated with Gabriel’s too-transparent attempt to make him feel like he’s worth something that the abrupt change throws him. It takes him a moment to find his tongue, his jaw working soundlessly for a moment before he manages, “I’d rather he not leave at all. I can’t lose him.”

Gabe’s expression darkens minutely. “You won’t lose him. _We_ won’t lose him. I swear to you, Dean, no matter how much this escalates, I’ll do everything in my power to prevent that from happening. But I’m not going to lose Heaven, or Earth, for that matter. If this is war, then you know what that means just as well as I do.”

Dean doesn’t have anything to say to that, so he looks away. It’s bullshit, he’s sure; which is it supposed to be? Will Cas’ safety be a priority, or will the success of the war? Even if Gabe wants to keep his brother alive, war is war, and the archangel isn’t capable of stopping Cas from trying to sacrifice himself for the greater good. He certainly couldn’t stop the seraph when Dean was dying—Dean may not be bitter about that near-suicide in particular, but Cas himself admitted that what he did could have blown a hole in the Earth’s crust if his healing attempt went wrong.

It’s hard to trust where Gabe might draw his line, even without an argument which contradicts itself at every turn.

“I have troops to start coordinating,” Gabe announces, interrupting Dean’s train of thought, “Castiel should already be coordinating with our Watcher division, but I’ll make sure he’s back here in a few hours, at most. Don’t do anything stupid while we’re gone, and watch the perimeter.”

He leaves before Dean can reply, vanishing in an agitated swirl of golden feathers. Being dismissed so casually stings, and Dean frowns as his shoulders twitch with the urge to spread his wings and make himself be anywhere but here. He would do just that, if the thought of using those limbs, that power right now didn’t set him on-edge.

The house is silent in the aftermath of Gabe’s departure; Dean could pinpoint Bobby, Sam, and Jess’ locations if he wanted to, but he’d rather not know whether they’ve been eavesdropping or not. And he certainly doesn’t want to talk to any of them. He doesn’t want to talk to _anyone_ , doesn’t even want to think about any of this for a good, long while.

Not about the impending war, not about his own angelic failures, not about his husband leaving with no guarantee of his safety.

It’s just too much right now.

He announces aloud to the empty room, dragging a weary hand across his face, “I need a beer.”

 

~

 

He doesn’t get a beer. There’s an unshakable tension in his stomach when he pulls a bottle from the fridge, and though he pops the top off anyway, intent on drowning his problems regardless of his body’s protests, the contents smell foul, and threaten to make him gag. He delivers it to Jess instead, grumbling to himself while his wings twitch with agitation. He ignores the odd look the woman gives him and stomps outside to sulk.

Stupid shitty beer. Stupid twisted nerves, making shitty beer unappetizing.

He picks his way out into the junk yard with no specific direction in mind, and finds himself lost in the maze of metal carcasses in no time. He’s sure that Cas and/or Gabe would give him shit for being outside right now, flaunting himself and his shiny wings for anyone to see while they’re now technically in war-mode, but he doesn’t give a rat’s ass. The house was stifling, claustrophobic, and Cas is _gone_ —

Technically, of course, Cas is never gone. Dean can always feel him, always has the connection of their bond to tether them together, but even if Cas is assigned to captain the ‘Earthbound forces’, that’s going to be a huge deal when shit hits the fan. Being on Earth isn’t going to mean being home, or being with Dean.

Because despite Gabriel’s apology, it’s not like Dean’s much use to anyone out in the field. If he were to accompany Cas, his mate would spend more time babysitting him than anything else. Dean would be a distraction, a deadweight and a weakness.

Dean knows how badass Cas is capable of being, and he knows what a great leader he is. Depriving Gabriel’s army of such an asset would not only be selfish, but stupid, too. They need him. Dean knows that.

It doesn’t change how he feels—the tension and fear that coils in his gut.

The sun has long since set by the time Cas returns. Dean is still in the junk yard when his husband lands with a soft flutter of wings, sitting in the dirt and staring up at the stars in silence. Cas’ footsteps are silent as he approaches Dean, but Dean can feel him coming, anyway. He doesn’t turn, and Cas doesn’t come around from behind him. Time may as well stop around them for how little either of them moves.

Eventually, Cas lets out a soft sigh. “Sentinel of the Realm is a tremendous honor, Dean. The last time anyone was given the title was Joshua, at the time of Lucifer’s rebellion. I know it is not ideal, but I have to do my best. I must make Gabriel proud.”

Because even though Dean is his mate and his husband, Castiel’s loyalty will always be to his duty and his brother first—he’s happy to leave Dean alone if it gives him _honor_. Dean wants to growl out an acerbic reply, to slash and bite and feel _anything_ apart from the aching loneliness of what feels like a betrayal, but no words come.

A moment passes in tense silence, and when Cas clues into the fact that Dean has no intention of replying, he makes an annoyed sound.

“Dean, I don’t understand why you’re upset. I can feel it, you know, even if you’re closing yourself off from the bond. Ignoring me doesn’t accomplish anything.” His feet shuffle in the dirt, and Dean can feel the warmth that radiates from him when he moves slightly closer. It takes another minute, but Cas drops down to sit in the dirt behind Dean, slotting in against his back with his legs on either side of his husband’s and his forehead pressing against the base of Dean’s neck. Dean still doesn’t turn, but he can’t deny that the contact is reassuring.

Cas waits, patient despite the nervousness Dean can smell on him. It isn’t long before Dean cracks, slumping under the weight of his tumultuous emotions and the touch of his beloved mate.

“I just… I’ve been thinking. Stuck in my head, I guess.” He leans back into Cas just slightly, relishing the way his husband’s arms circle around his middle in answer. “And I… I know this is a big deal, this shit with Raphael. I do. If she’s planning something, then we need to be ready and all that, and I know leading is kind of your gig Upstairs, but that doesn’t mean I want to deal with it.”

Cas’ breath tickles Dean’s neck. “Dean, love…”

Dean shakes his head. “Is it so bad that I just want more than a three-month break? That’s all I’ve had with you. Three and a half, if you count the nonstop running we were doing when we were fighting Azazel. That’s not a lot, babe.”

“I know,” Cas relents, sounding pained as he does. “If it were up to me, I would choose to stay here. I would choose to not have a war. But until we know what it is Raphael is up to, and until we know who is calling angels to action and why… I have to do my duty.”

Dean is helpless to stop the growl that builds in his chest, and he twists, shifting in the dirt until he’s kneeling in the vee of Cas’ spread legs. The angel looks up at him in the near-dark of the stars, his eyes shining blue and already so _tired_. “The only thing your _duty_ is going to accomplish is keeping you away from home,” Dean snarls. “Nothing good’s gonna come of this, Cas, I can feel it.”

“We’ll make it through this.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“Perhaps not, but—”

“But _nothing_.”

He doesn’t want to hear this. He can’t even let himself _think_ about the prospect of Cas not returning from this war, because he knows from experience that he won’t survive that, and he just wants this conversation to _end_ so that he can pretend for a little while longer that the domestic life they’ve started building around themselves isn’t already crumbling.

He doesn’t want every moment of his relationship with Cas to be running or fighting. He just wants to _be_. Just wants to be with Cas.

Before rational thought can take over, Dean twists in Cas’ hold. He fists his hands in his husband’s shirt and tugs sharply to untuck it from his slacks—god, he’s really starting to hate this outfit, the neatly-pressed pants and white shirt, the stupid blue tie, all signs that Cas has been in Heaven, had to clean himself up for them in a way he doesn’t do for Dean—and gets a surprised sound for his efforts.

“Dean—”

“Cas, just—” He can’t do this anymore, not right now. Dean’s hands drop lower and he fumbles, but manages to get Cas’ belt undone and his fly opened shortly after. He’s impatient, suddenly overwhelmed with need. “—shut up.”

The angel still looks unsure, but he doesn’t object, which is all that matters. Dean gets Cas’ pants shoved down just enough to free his cock, but lacks the patience to get his own layers out of the way in the same fashion. With a too-fast, too-sharp burst of grace, his jeans and underwear fall away to tatters. He’ll probably regret that later; the jeans were a good pair.

Cas makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat, possibly the beginning of Dean’s name, but Dean cuts him off with a rough press of lips before anything more can make it off of his tongue. Their teeth clack together, Dean’s approach rushed and off-kilter, but he makes it work. He bites Cas’ lips and licks into his mouth, and wraps a hand around his mate’s length to stroke him until he’s hard.

Cas may be hesitant to go along with Dean’s abrupt rush of desire, but his dick gets with the program pretty damn well.

As soon as Cas is hard enough, Dean pushes him back until he’s forced to drop his hands back to the dirt with his elbows locked to prevent laying down entirely. Dean slides forward and straddles his hips, eyes closed in concentration—and to avoid having to think about the shock in Cas’ electric-blue eyes—as he takes his mate’s cock in hand and lines it up with his entrance. He hasn’t done this without prep or foreplay since—since before Azazel. The fact that even his thoughts stutter over the time-marker is probably a sign that he was in just as great of a state of mind then as he is now (meaning, definitely not great at all) because he’s still not a huge fan of doing it like this. But he knows that he can, so he will.

Dean sinks slowly onto Cas, his head tipped back in bliss while his fingers scrabble for purchase on his mate’s chest. He ends up pulling hard at Cas’ shirt, tearing at the fabric, but can’t bring himself to care. The pressure inside of him is too good, too perfect, for anything else to matter to his stress-addled mind.

It isn’t long before he’s fully seated, his ass flush with Cas’ thighs, and the burn and stretch makes him moan. Even while joined with Cas like this, he can’t forget his worries about the upcoming war, not really, but he gets close. He can feel Cas in the most intimate way, in mind, body, and grace, and that makes the possibility of losing his soulmate, be it permanently or even just temporarily while he’s away, feel a little less imminent.

Cas’ wings curl around Dean while he fucks himself on the angel’s cock, and the brush of feathers feels unusual against his bare back. He’s grown so used to having his own wings out when they do this. He considers doing it now, letting his wings fall into the visible plane so that he can feel the melding of black and tan, see the way their coloring matches up so perfectly, but he holds back.

Right now, he wants to feel more human than angel.

Despite Cas’ lack of enthusiasm for the sex Dean is demanding, he still rolls his hips up into Dean, and it isn’t long before his knot begins to swell. Dean loves the feel of it, both for the additional stretch and what he knows it promises; he grinds down against it with abandon, moaning when it rubs over his prostate enough to leave him trembling.

Cas comes before Dean does. His knot grows to its full size and locks into place while he comes, drawing a breathy whimper out of Dean while his muscles milk the angel dry. He’s on the brink himself, so close to coming that he’s shaking and tears well in his eyes, but he suspects it’s his anxieties still holding him back, because it’s still not _enough_.

Until, that is, Cas takes pity on him. Dean doesn’t know when he lost his hold on the barrier of his thoughts, but it’s definitely long gone, and he can feel Cas submersing himself in his mind. He can feel Cas’ worry, his guilt, and Dean both loves and hates it. His mate’s grace brushes along his own while their lips do the same, and when Cas hugs him, wrapping him with arms, wings, and so much love Dean feels like he could choke on it—Dean comes, a sound falling from his lips that’s far too close to a sob for him to admit even to himself. Cas whispers soft praises in his ear, sweet reassurances in Enochian that rumbles to Dean’s core, and Dean hides his face in his neck and tries to get a grip on himself.

For now, they’re together. Cas is with him, and he’s not leaving yet—not for the night, at the very least. Dean still has him. Dean refuses to lose him. He’ll do whatever it takes.

Above, in the nearly-static expanse of the night sky, there’s a single shooting star.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you okay?”
> 
> Dean stalls in place for a fraction of a second, unable to shake his surprise quickly enough for it to pass by unseen. He clears his throat as he rifles through the fridge. “I’m peachy. Never felt better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *drum roll*

Sam and Jess are already in the kitchen when Dean walks in, quietly conferring over mugs of steaming coffee. They both look up when he enters, and, of course, fall silent.

 _God damnit_.

He’s not exactly eager for whatever talk they’re planning on springing on him, however, so he decides to ignore them for as long as possible. He beelines toward the coffee pot, and resolutely keeps his back toward the couple at the table. One of them shifts their weight, causing their chair to creak in protest, then there’s a fervent whisper of, “ _Do it!_ ”

Sam sighs heavily, and Dean frowns, already bracing himself.

“Dean.”

He returns the coffee pot to the machine once his mug is full, then turns toward the fridge to dig out the creamer. “Yeah, Sammy?”

“Are you okay?”

Dean stalls in place for a fraction of a second, unable to shake his surprise quickly enough for it to pass by unseen. He clears his throat as he rifles through the fridge. “I’m peachy. Never felt better.”

Jess snorts inelegantly. “That’s the biggest crock of shit I’ve heard all week.”

“Yeah, Dean…” When Sam trails off, Dean turns halfway toward him, glaring over his shoulder. His brother shrugs, but isn’t deterred. “You’re not okay, man. You’ve been weird all week, since we heard about Raphael. You’re not handling Cas’ promotion well, it’s obvious.”

Dean slams the fridge shut, already hating the way that this is going, and whirling to scowl at Sam. “No _shit_ I’m not handling it well,” he finally snaps. “He’s my goddamn _mate_ , and now he’s gone all the time because of this stupid shit with Raphael. What is it you want from me? Should I be his personal cheerleader, encouraging him to go do whatever it is he does from the sidelines? Wave some pom-poms while he’s out in the line of fire, and just cross my fingers and hope this doesn’t end with him dead?”

“Dean,” Jess cuts in, “that’s not what we’re saying. Cas hasn’t been gone all that much—”

“He’s gone right now,” Dean growls, earning a hard look from Jess.

“He’s only ever gone for a _couple hours_ ,” she reiterates. “And I’m sure the same will be true today. Cas loves you, it’s not like he’s intentionally trying to ditch you. You have to cut him some slack, Dean. It’s not fair to freak out on him before we even know what’s going on with Raphael.”

Dean continues to scowl, but doesn’t answer. So maybe she has a point. So what? He wants to be mad, he’s going to be mad. Jess said some things that are true, but so did Dean, because he still woke up to an empty bed this morning, has done so almost every day this week, and he knows that a war with Raphael is going to be a big deal, and that terrifies him. He doesn’t know what else is expected from him, here.

It had been hard to drag himself out of his room this morning, though, regardless of the fact that he was its lone occupant. His childhood bedroom, now belonging to both him and Cas and complete with a larger bed to accommodate two adult bodies, is safe. It’s small, maybe, but it’s closed off to the world, it smells like them, and it’s _home_.

If he could have his way, he and Cas would never have to leave that room. The fact that he had that thought upon waking, then immediately rolled over into cold sheets, stung more than he will ever admit out loud.

“ _Dean_.”

Dean blinks up at his brother, who’s now up from his seat at the table and halfway to him. When did that happen? “Yeah?”

A look of concern crosses Sam’s face. Behind him, Jess stands and starts to ease herself out of the room. Dean casts her a confused look, but Sam speaks before he can question what the hell she’s doing, drawing his attention away.

“Dude, you zoned out on us. I said your name, like, five times.”

Dean’s nose wrinkles. “What? No you didn’t. You said it once.”

“ _Oh boy_ ,” Jess whispers, and then she’s escaped into the next room, leaving a thoroughly-befuddled Dean and a _very_ worried Sam in her wake. Because Dean knows his brother, and he knows all of his facial expressions. He’s pretty sure the last time he saw _this_ face was when he was trying to hide a pair of cracked ribs after a fight with a drunken John.

It’s been a while, but that doesn’t mean that Dean isn’t still familiar with it.

Sam advances another step, his hand outstretched like he’s approaching a feral animal. “Dean, I think you should sit down. Let’s talk. This isn’t worth freaking out about, we’re all still here for you.”

There’s a rush of rustling feathers as Dean’s wings become visible and flare open wide, stretching out in a warning while the kitchen lights flicker above them. He’s _not_ some sort of cornered animal, damnit, but if Sam is going to treat him like one, then this is what he’s going to get.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he growls—literally, if the rumbling he can feel in his chest is anything to go by. He hadn’t quite meant for that to happen, but it has the desired effect, and Sam stumbles back away from him. Good. “Don’t start treating me like I’m made of fucking glass, because I’m not. If you’re worried about all of this, take it up with Gabriel. He’s the ringleader, not me.”

And with that, he flaps his wings and vanishes. The last thing he sees before the fabric of reality streaks and blurs before his eyes is Sam’s shocked expression, a small tornado of papers that gets stirred up by the torrent of his wings, and both Bobby and Jess’ wide, surprised eyes in the doorway. When he lands in his bedroom a fraction of a second later, he can hear Sam calling his name, like that will somehow do him any good. They won’t expect him to have only gone a few dozen feet, though. They won’t come looking for him here.

He turns the lock on the door, and then focuses for a moment to extend his grace toward it and secure it in that position. He may not expect to be found here, but better safe than sorry. And really, he may as well make the most of the abilities at his fingertips.

The room is just as closed-off and comfortable as it was when Dean left it not half an hour ago. He doesn’t know why he left it; hiding from your problems is so underrated. He’s tempted to flit back to the kitchen to retrieve the coffee that he abandoned, but really, he doesn’t even need that. If he can just stay here, where Cas’ scent is permanently lingering in the air, and on the sheets…

Maybe if he gets back in bed and acts like he’s capable of sleep like he used to be, he can start his day over, and pretend it’s all happening _his_ way. He crawls into the rumpled sheets before he can talk himself out of it, his golden-brown wings tucking around his body in a cocoon of warmth as he pulls the covers up as a final, protective layer over entire body. His stress leaks from him as he sinks into the mattress, and steadily, his problems become a little less distinct.

He shifts, wiggling into his dip in the memory foam mattress to get more comfortable. As he moves, though, his fingers brush across something soft wedged between the sheets, and he goes still. He tugs at it, pulls the softness out into the light, and blinks at what he finds.

Pinched between his fingers is a single, black feather. It’s Cas’, of course, couldn’t possibly belong to anyone else, even if Dean couldn’t feel the lingering trace of his grace in it, or smell that it matches Cas’ honey-in-a-rainstorm scent. He’s not sure he’s ever seen one of Cas’ dropped feathers, though, which makes this utterly unique; Dean cradles it in his hands like it’s something precious, admiring the inky softness in the sunlight that filters in through the window.

He wonders when it fell out. When they had sex last night? It’s nearly as long as his forearm, probably from the middle of his wing somewhere, about where Dean often grabs and tugs to make Cas moan. The timeline would make sense, because it hadn’t been there the previous day. He hopes he didn’t _pull_ it from his mate—but he can’t actually remember the specifics of their most recent night well enough to recall whether or not he might have tugged that hard.

Maybe there _is_ something to be worried about, here.

Regardless, though, he now has a feather, a small piece of Cas, and it’s not something he can just put aside. He holds it close, letting the silken vanes drag over his cheek before, on impulse, tucking it away into his pillowcase. When he presses his face into the cotton, he can feel the feather through it, and can breathe it in without fear of being caught doing exactly that.

Having such a fresh source of Cas’ scent in his nose, though, relaxes him even more than was already happening just from the sheer comfort of the bed alone. It laps at the edges of his mind, drawing him away from consciousness while at the same time making the part of him that is always reaching for his mate buzz pleasantly. The bond grows stronger in his mind, the humming at the back of his skull getting louder and more tangible with every second that passes. In an imitation of his current physical state, Dean imagines himself taking hold of that warm buzz and wrapping it around his shoulders, burying himself in it completely.

It warms him even more than the blankets do, and is more comforting than even the feather. He can feel Cas’ emotions, mind, and presence, all fitting alongside his own as naturally as if it were made to be there. The sensation only gets better when he feels Cas divert a bit of attention to him, and that humming takes on an edge, running over his soul like fingers in his hair. It’s utterly wonderful, and it takes no time at all for Dean to fall asleep.

 

~

 

When he wakes sometime later, it’s to the soft, rhythmic feeling of Cas’ actual fingers carding through his hair. Dean turns his head up into it automatically, a pleased purr building in his chest as his husband showers him with easy affection. It’s one of the best possible ways to wake up, and nearly makes up for the annoyance he faced when he got up the first time.

That is, until Cas breaks the pleasant silence they’re sitting in.

“Sam called. He didn’t know where you went, and your phone is turned off.”

Dean’s purr cuts off instantly, and his eyes slit open. Cas is behind him, perched on the edge of the bed, but he doesn’t turn to look at him. The plain, cream sheets and expanse of blue wall beyond them are far easier to look at. He went back to bed because this is a conversation he _didn’t_ want to have, not so that he could get his husband sicced on him.

In lieu of a real response, Dean changes the subject. “How’s the shit with Raphael going?”

Cas sighs. He doesn’t say anything more about Sam, which Dean is grateful for, and only hesitates for a fraction of a second before answering. “She returned to her post at what equates to having been late last night. We’ve yet to confront her about where she went or why she was gone, but Gabriel is going to attempt a casual meeting with her to see what knowledge he can gain.”

Dean hums noncommittally. That doesn’t sound so bad, but until they call off the whole pre-war shtick, he isn’t going to get his hopes up. They’re still on the precipice.

Likely responding to that very thought, Cas tacks on, “We still expect it to get worse.  I’m currently trying to get in contact with Balthazar, so that I may establish an inside connection within Raphael’s division, but I have not heard much in return, which is concerning.”

“Balthazar?” Dean finally turns halfway, wings rippling around his body to accommodate the movement without unwrapping from around him as he rolls to be able to meet Cas’ gaze. He narrows his eyes at his husband. “That douchebag who harassed us when we went looking for Uriel? He was an asshole, why the hell would you want _him_ to be your connection?”

Though he looks faintly amused, Cas rolls his eyes. He tugs at Dean’s hair, gentle yet chastising. “He’s not always quite so annoying. Not that it excuses his behavior, but I believe he was somewhat jealous of the fact that I have such an amazing mate, while he still fails to get any sort of lasting attention, be it from angels or humans.”

Dean is helpless to stop the pink that colors his cheeks at the implication that _he_ is something worth being jealous over, but shoves away the warmth that it sends curling through his stomach in favor of focusing on the actual subject at hand. His lips tick up in a dry smile. “That doesn’t really answer my question, you know. Why _him_ , Cas?”

His husband shrugs. “I know him, and we have been friends our whole lives. There’s no one else in Raphael’s division I know as well and can trust as completely. I like to think that he would be loyal to me over Raphael, if Raphael is corrupt, and if it were to come down to that. I know you are not his biggest fan, but he _is_ one of my best friends.”

“Ugh. You’ve got shit taste in friends sometimes, babe.” Dean rolls over fully and wraps his arms around Cas’ waist. His right wing wedges itself beneath Cas’, their feathers catching and rubbing together pleasantly in a way that he hopes mitigates his criticism. “Is he going to work out, though? Balthazar? Why haven’t you heard back from him?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Cas says. His brow is pinched with a budding expression of concern, which Dean instantly hates. He might not be Balthazar’s number one fan, but he’s definitely Cas’, and that means he doesn’t want to see him miserable, or worried about his friends.

The angel continues, “My instinctual concern is that someone knows I tried to contact him, or even that I have a connection to him in general. If Gabriel and I are the primary adversaries in this, then our opponents would do well to cut off as many of our resources as possible. _Alternatively_ …” Cas had been staring off at a point over Dean’s shoulder, but now his gaze slides down to meet his husband’s. “We’re currently suspecting Raphael, but Balthazar works with Michael’s division more often. Either of them could be responsible for this. It’s impossible to know.”

“ _God damnit_ ,” Dean grumbles. He drops his head into Cas’ lap, pillowing his head on the angel’s thigh while he squeezes his eyes closed. Balthazar is their best bet, but Balthazar is probably already suspected of being their best bet and therefore _isn’t_ their best bet. But if they could get someone on the inside, to even just be able to tell them whether or not this threat is real…

“I know,” Cas says, stroking his hair again. “It’s not an ideal scenario. I’m going to keep trying with him, however, and see where it gets me. In the meantime, Gabriel is currently trying to talk to Michael. He plans on telling him about the intercepted call to action message, so that he at least knows there is something to be preparing for. Or to see if he knows what the origin of the message was, but that seems unlikely.”

Dean nods in vague agreement. From what he’s heard about Michael, there’s virtually no way of knowing what they’ll get out of him in advance. He’s not going to get his hopes up about it either way, not until they hear back from Gabriel, whenever that happens.

And considering Dean hasn’t seen Gabe since all this shit started, who knows when it will be.

Though he’s reluctant to leave the comfort of the bed, Dean pushes himself up into a sitting position, stretching his wings and arms. Cas’ eyes follow the movements of his wings, staring at them as they arch above their heads and then dropping along with them when they fall to the bed. Dean grins, knowing full well what it is that has darkened those blue eyes he loves so much, and nudges his husband in the side.

“C’mon, babe, you can touch ‘em later. I’m starving, and desperately need some coffee, since I didn’t actually have any today. Stick around, and we can come back up here after.”

Cas blinks, and the heat vanishes from his eyes. They look a bit bluer, once the alpha red that Dean hadn’t even fully noticed has gone, and then they crinkle at the corners. “I highly doubt you’re _starving_ ,” he counters teasingly, “considering we established quite a while ago that you do not have a strict need for food now that you have my grace. But I won’t be the one to deprive you if you want something to eat.” He levels Dean with a stare, then, eyes narrowing just slightly, while his lips curl into a smile. “We _will_ be returning here afterwards, however, I can guarantee you that.”

Dean grins, and flicks him a lazy salute and a wink before finally rolling off of the bed. “Sir, yes, sir. In that case, I’ll eat faster than I’ve ever eaten before.”

That draws a chuckle out of Cas. “You’re incorrigible.”

“And you love it,” Dean shoots back. He had crawled into bed with his clothes on earlier, so once he’s on his feet, he’s ready to go. He drags a wing along Cas’ once more, just to be a shit, then unlocks his bedroom door and strolls out through it, pretending he doesn’t hear his mate’s frustrated groan behind him.

It’s so fun to be a tease.

Cas has caught up to him by the time he’s going down the last of the stairs into the living room, making them a combined unit when Sam looks up from where he’s sitting on the couch with his laptop, Jess beside him. His eyebrows disappear up into his mop of hair, and he demands incredulously, “Were you seriously upstairs this _whole time_?”

Dean shoots his brother a grin, and directs a finger-gun toward him. “A good magician never reveals his secrets, Sammy. You don’t know where I was, and you can’t prove anything.” He flicks his wings once to propel himself into the kitchen, and has to stifle a laugh at the stuttering he can hear Sam doing in the next room now that he’s suddenly disappeared once again.

He feels Cas’ amusement in the back of his mind, and clearly hears the low timbre of his husband’s voice when he comments to the couple, “He appears to be feeling better.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Jess replies. There’s some whispers, then, traded between Sam and Jess before being escalated up to Cas, but Dean doesn’t care enough to listen in. He catches something about, “—gone for _hours_ —” and, “—you didn’t _see him_ , Cas—” and then he intentionally tunes the rest of it out. If they want to talk shit about him, they can have at it.

Cas is here, isn’t talking about having to leave again (yet), _and_ has made it pretty clear that Dean’s going to get some good sex tonight. Or, not _tonight_ hopefully. A hell of a lot sooner than that, if all goes well. He glances at the clock on the stove, expecting it to be maybe midday at the latest, but blinks at what he sees, instead.

Damn. How the hell is it already five o’clock at night? Did he really sleep for that long? He did, apparently, but he struggles to wrap his head around it. It couldn’t’ve been later than ten when he went back to bed, and considering he’s hardly slept at all in the time since he freaking _changed species_ … It’s a bit odd.

He frowns, but then his stomach rumbles, loud and insistent, and any concern takes the back seat as he turns his attention to fixing himself some food.

He finishes getting his snack together, and when he goes back into the living room a few minutes later, it’s with a mug of steaming, overly-sugared coffee in one hand, and a plate with a peanut butter and banana sandwich in the other. He strolls through the doorway, sipping at his coffee as he goes, but slows to a stop when he sees what’s awaiting him.

Sam, Jess, Bobby, Cas, and Gabe are arranged in a loose circle around the room, and all of their eyes are on him the moment he enters the room. His sip of coffee turns into a slurp when he lowers his mug, and he frowns at the assembled group.

“Uh. Did I miss something? The hell are you guys doing?” He looks at Gabe, his frown deepening. “And when did you get here? I thought you were meeting with Michael, or something?”

Gabe just shakes his head. “We called a family meeting, all hands on deck. Something’s up with you, kid, and everyone’s worried.”

 _Everyone_? Dean’s eyes cut over to Cas, and he glares dangerously. His mate, standing closer to him than any of the others, shifts uncomfortably.

“Dean, Sam and Jess have raised some… valid concerns, and Bobby has confirmed many of them.” Cas comes closer, only stopping a few feet away when Dean’s wings shift in warning. He’s beginning to regret his earlier decision to let them shit talk him while he was in the kitchen, because it clearly didn’t work in his favor. Cas gulps visibly before continuing, “I’m aware that, mainly, this is something that Gabriel and I should be talking to you about—but I think this is something we all need to be on the same page, with.”

Dean shuffles backwards a step, holding his coffee close to his chest like a shield. “Let me guess, this is all about the fact that I’m ‘not taking this war well’ or something like that, right? Well, save your breath. Like I told Sam this morning, I’m worried, and I’m allowed to be. That’s all there is to it. There’s no big drama here, so you don’t need to have some goddamn _intervention_.” He glares at Sam as he spits out the last word, because of everyone present, his brother is the most likely to have come up with this stupid idea.

“No,” Cas says, his tone sharp, exasperated, “it was _my_ idea. If you don’t listen when Sam, Jess, or Bobby try to talk to you about this, and you won’t speak with _me_ about it, then I assumed working together was worth a try. Don’t try to blame Sam, he’s only being a concerned brother.”

Dean doesn’t realize that he left his thoughts open to the bond until he pieces together that Cas is verbally correcting things that weren’t spoken aloud. It doesn’t feel like a violation of privacy like it probably should, but regardless, Dean snaps the Impala’s-glovebox-mental-restriction around his thoughts as quickly as possible. Cas’ expression hardens in response, a spark of emotion Dean doesn’t want to examine too closely in his eyes, and the omega raises his chin in defiance. His irises spark with gold, more and more of it mixing into green as his irritation mounts.

“ _This_ is why we’re having this intervention, Dean,” Gabe cuts in suddenly, drawing Dean’s glare. “You’re being irrational, and more emotional than is warranted. I know this is hard on you, but we talked about this after I promoted Castiel to Sentinel. You’re not unimportant in this. You don’t need to be as distressed about it as you are.”

“What, because you get to tell me what I can and can’t be distressed about?” Dean scoffs. “Yeah, don’t think so.”

A brief look of surprise crosses Gabe’s expression, but it quickly gets schooled back into a mask of thinly-veiled irritation. “I’m not telling you what you can or can’t be upset about, Dean,” he counters, “I’m just trying to help you see that there’s no foundation for it. We’re all here for you, Dean-o, that’s the consensus.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, well, that doesn’t change the fact that _you_ don’t need to be here for my intervention.” He pauses, then gestures to Gabriel with his coffee mug, its contents sloshing. “Why _are_ you here for my intervention?”

“I’m here because you’re family, asshat,” Gabe says, rolling his eyes in return. “Not to mention the fact that you’re freaking Cas out by extension of your meltdown, and I can’t have that right now.”

Without warning, rage scorches through Dean, white-hot and lethal. He takes no notice of the way the lights flicker, too busy glowering at the archangel as he is. Because _there it is_. “Right, how silly of me. Can’t let Cas be affected, because you know, he’s only my _mate_. God forbid I actually have something I’m struggling with, for my own damn reasons. But you know—you’re right. What matters is that Cas can follow you around and feed into your stupid, obsessive behavior over a war that you don’t even know _exists_ yet.”

Gabriel’s eyes flash dangerously, but before he can deliver the scathing retort that Dean is confident is on its way, Bobby interrupts him. The interruption is probably the only reason that the windows are saved from being blown out by a screaming match, Dean knows.

“Dean, son, don’t go gettin’ all offended about what we’re trying to tell you, here.” The man sits forward in his armchair, ever-present ball cap pushed up so that he can stare at Dean, unimpeded. He doesn’t quite look disappointed, but it’s a near thing, and that alone is enough to have the wind going from Dean’s sails. He feels far more embarrassed over his actions now that Bobby is reprimanding him for them than he has with anyone else.

“You’re picking fights where they don’t need to be picked, and you’re getting worked up over things you know better than to get worked up about. You’re not bein’ yourself, and _that’s_ what we’re worried about, boy. There’s a lot going on, and there’s a lot that’s _been_ going on, and we all want to know that you’re okay. Does that sound like something you should be mad about?”

No. It doesn’t. Dean’s wingtips curl around his calves, twisting in shame while he ducks his head. He’s not _trying_ to be irrational and worry everyone, it’s just… He just…

He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

“I’m sorry, alright?” he says. He might have thrown his hands up in exasperation, if they weren’t full. “I’ll try not to worry as much about this shit, and I’ll try to act like a normal ass human being. Is that what you want to hear? Are you happy now?” He takes a drink of his coffee, and winces when he discovers that it’s lost most of its heat. “Jesus, I only came downstairs because I was hungry, I wasn’t expecting the Spanish Inquisition.”

“Hungry?” Gabe parrots, and god, Dean could just _punch him_. That part wasn’t at all relevant, not next to his damn apology, yet now the archangel is squinting at him from across the huddle like he’s some kind of puzzle. “I thought you’re angel enough to not have the basic human needs of survival.”

Dean shrugs. He sets his mug down so that he can handle his sandwich, picking it up and taking a large bite out of the side. He says only once he’s swallowed, “I was hungry, man, I don’t know what you want from me.”

“What the hell are you even eating?” Jess asks.

“Uh.” Dean looks down at his plate, feeling moderately self-conscious, now that attention has been called to it. “Peanut butter and banana sandwich?”

She makes a face. “And in the mug?”

“Coffee. Well—it’s basically a mocha. I doctored it up. Just a bit.”

Sam whispers, horrified, “Who are you?”

“God, really,” Jess agrees at his side. She pushes her fraying hair back, looking utterly exasperated. “Emotional swings _and_ weird ass food? It’s like you’re pregnant.”

Dean scowls. “Oh, fu-fuck off.” He stumbles halfway through the second word because at his side, Cas’ side of their mating bond has erupted into an overwhelming amount of what’s basically sharp, white static. It feels like tin foil on Dean’s teeth. He turns toward Cas, uncomprehending.

The angel, for his part, is white as a sheet, all the blood drained from his face. His eyes are wide and watery, and _fuck_ , if that doesn’t make Dean even more terrified than he already is. But what did he miss, how did they get to this point? Jess only said…

The bottom drops out from Dean’s stomach. Cas is staring right back at him, but when his mate’s eyes go to Gabe, Dean follows his lead. His ears are ringing, and his mouth feels stuffed with cotton.

“Gabriel,” Cas scrapes out, but his brother just looks stunned. Somehow, he’s gone even paler than Cas has at the moment.

“Gabe,” Dean adds, further prompting. His voice doesn’t sound much better than Cas’ did. “Why you lookin’ at me like that.”

Gabe makes a strangled sound. “Oh, fuck.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instead of answering, Gabriel just comes nearer, the expression on his face unchanging. When he reaches Dean, he cups the man’s face between both of his palms—which is fucking weird, and if Dean weren’t so freaked out in general, he’s sure he would jerk away instead of being rooted in place—and Dean can feel the archangel’s grace, poking at his own. After a few drawn-out moments, Gabe retreats. His hands slide away from Dean’s face, and he goes off to the opposite side of the room, pulling at his hair. His wings are away, but Dean has a feeling they would be twitching, if they weren’t.
> 
> “And?” he demands. He doesn’t miss the way Cas’ eyes flicker back toward him, finally pulled from his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh BOY, did this chapter fight me. It was a long road to this one, amigos. Huge thanks to [Emma](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo) for helping it actually get out, because god, I was _really_ overthinking a couple aspects. Jesus. 
> 
> In addition to the standard gambit of writing struggles, however, one of my delays was also that I was busy trying to get to the end of a fic I'm co-writing with [saltnhalo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo)! (The same rock star who helped me finish this chapter; she's the best.) What's in this fic, you ask? Murder! Intrigue! Hot, mysterious alphas with questionable motives! Chapter one is coming soon, and it's a hell of a ride, guys. Keep your eyes peeled. <3 
> 
> My other (lamer) excuse for not updating sooner is that Destiny 2 came out, and it's just as fun as the first game. I'm the kind of loser, too, who created a clan and called it RaisedFromPerdition. As of right now, I'm a solo loser, but hey. No invite needed. Be my friend, if you have any idea what the hell I'm talking about. 
> 
> And FINALLY, my last note, and one of the most important: mpreg! I know mpreg isn't everyone's jam, and I don't want anyone to feel uncomfortable about it. The way I plan on handling it isn't typical, however, and for anyone who falls in the category of, "Um, no thank you," I want to make this as easy as possible on everyone, so bear with me, I have a plan. More on that in the end notes, though. <3 
> 
>  
> 
> And with all of that said: Enjoy. I love you all.

He’s going to be sick. Dean’s stomach is twisting, his ears are still ringing, his wings are rigid against his back, and Jesus Christ, he’s gonna hurl. Right here on Bobby’s faded old rug, too, because there’s no way in hell his wobbly legs are going to be able to carry him all the way to the bathroom.  

“Gabe?” Dean says again— _asks_ , because for god’s sake, _he’s_ the subject of this apparent shit storm, but everyone around him is still struck into silence, and how is that fair that this is falling to _him_? “You better not be saying what I think you’re saying. That’s not what this is. I know you bastards have joked about this, but it _can’t_ be true.”

Instead of answering, Gabriel just comes nearer, the expression on his face unchanging. When he reaches Dean, he cups the man’s face between both of his palms—which is fucking _weird_ , and if Dean weren’t so freaked out in general, he’s sure he would jerk away instead of being rooted in place—and Dean can feel the archangel’s grace, poking at his own. After a few drawn-out moments, Gabe retreats. His hands slide away from Dean’s face, and he goes off to the opposite side of the room, pulling at his hair. His wings are away, but Dean has a feeling they would be twitching, if they weren’t.

“And?” he demands. He doesn’t miss the way Cas’ eyes flicker back toward him, finally pulled from his brother.

It takes far too long for Gabe to answer, his back to the rest of the room, “You’re pregnant.”

All of the air leaves Dean’s lungs in a sharp rush.

“You’re fucking joking.”

“‘Fraid not, bucko.”

“ _I_ was joking,” Jess whines, and Bobby says right on her heels, “Feel like explaining how this is possible?”

Gabe abruptly spins on his heel, whirling to face the humans. He’s twitchy as he does it, and even though his eyes are on Jess, Sam, and Bobby where they’re gathered on the couch and armchair, Dean gets the distinct feeling he’s still being watched. Not that he’s going to do anything about it, what with the way he feels numb from head to toe.

“Remember when I gave you kids the angelic sex talk? Back when Dean-o went into heat?” They each nod vaguely, prompting Gabe to continue, “Well, this is the firsthand evidence of how that works. Alpha and omega bone, and if they’re lucky, they make a fledgling. Except…” He trails off, then takes a deep breath. “There hasn’t been a fledgling in Heaven since before the Big Man went out for scratchers and decided to never come home. We all assumed that was the end. Not like we need to worry about a sustainable population, anyway.”

“But I’m—” Dean stumbles before he can get the word out, then opts to avoid it altogether. The hand not still holding his plated sandwich goes to his abdomen, pressing in like he might actually be able to feel something beneath his palm. His wings curl at the edges, tingling with the same nervous energy that Dean can feel all through his core. “If this hasn’t happened in—”

“Apparently He changed his mind,” Gabe interrupts, flashing a tight smile.

“But I’m not a chick! This kind of shit isn’t supposed to happen!”

The archangel pulls a face. “It doesn’t matter that you’re not a ‘chick’, you’re an angel. Angels reproduce entirely different than humans do.”

Dean squints at him. “How differently? The hell does that mean?”

“Well, there’s not—” For a brief moment it looked like Gabe was about to give some good information, his index finger extended like he’s going to count off a few points, but he cuts himself off before he can. His finger curls back toward his hand. “Uh.”

Dean blinks. “ _Uh_?”

Gabe looks sheepish, but tosses his hands up in defeat. “I’ve never had to give the birds and the bees talk, alright, all I ever had was Cassie! Even the youngest angel is older than modern humanity, I’m behind on this shit. And I don’t know how humans make other humans, not in all the details that matter _now_. I can’t actually list off the comparisons for you. Sue me.”

“Jesus Christ, Gabe, what good are you.”

The archangel huffs. “Listen, fledglings are more reliant on grace than bodily stuff like humans are. That’s the key difference. We’re just going to have to… figure out the rest of it as we go.”

Well. If that isn’t reassuring.

Gabe stares at him for a minute longer, but when he realizes that Dean doesn’t have anything more to say, he finally turns his attention away and looks to Cas instead. “Cassie… This is going to change everything. You know this.”

Dean looks to Cas. His mate has been silent for far too long and, as Dean sees, still seems to be about ten seconds away from passing out. His eyes lock with Dean’s, and remain so even when he responds to his brother. “We must prioritize Dean’s safety over anything that may be happening with Raphael.”

“What?” Sam interjects. Dean doesn’t even so much as glance over at him, still caught up in his staring match with Cas as he is, but he knows that tone, and knows his brother is on the verge of freaking out. He goes on, sounding nearly hysteric, “You’re worried about Raphael trying to _seize power_ in Heaven, and _this_ is more important? That they didn’t… uh. Wrap it up?”

That, finally, encourages Dean to look away from his mate. He scowls at his brother. “Really, Sammy? You go with _wrap it up_? As if _that_ would have been the deciding factor in whether or not two dudes made a baby?”

Sam makes a face, his cheeks pink. “I’m trying not to think about the details, actually. I mean, I’m happy for you guys, but I can’t say this is ever how I expected to be an uncle.”

Dean nearly chokes on his own spit. _An uncle_. He hadn’t thought about it in terms like that yet, because Jesus, that makes it sound real. He’s saved from having to figure out how the hell to respond by an irritated gesture from Gabe, who maybe isn’t as obnoxious today as Dean was previously thinking.

“It _is_ important, Sam,” the archangel says when he cuts in, arms folded tight across his chest. “All of Heaven is going to lose their minds, when they find out there’s a new fledgling. Dean’s safety has to be our first priority through all of this, and he and the fledgling both have to be protected. If we lose either, or if they fall into the wrong hands…”

He doesn’t say who the ‘wrong hands’ are or what they could do, but Dean, at least, has no trouble imagining. John may not have been the best dad, but he wasn’t stupid, and all the training he put his sons through made an impact. The worst-case scenarios are easy to pick out, every moving piece falling into sharp relief in his mind.

If Raphael is their enemy, and wants them subdued—all she would have to do is get her hands on Dean. Cas would stop fighting if he were at risk, he knows, but if he _and_ their kid-to-be are at risk? Cas would surrender, Gabe would probably do the same for his brother’s sake, and Raphael would get whatever she wanted. She might not think to grab one of the commanding angels’ mates, but a commanding angel’s pregnant mate is an entirely different story.

Son of a bitch.

From the looks on both Gabe and Cas’ faces, they seem to be thinking along the same lines.

Gabriel sighs, a weary hand passing over his face. “But at the same time, if Raph is doing what I think she’s doing, then this fledgling isn’t going to stand a chance. Not unless we win. Michael is going to be a tool about this when he finds out, I guarantee it, but if nothing else, at least _he_ isn’t working with Hell. If Raphael builds herself a throne, there’s no telling what she’ll do with it.”

“We can’t find out,” Cas says sharply. “I will not let her get her hands on Dean. I will not let her _lay eyes_ on Dean, if I can help it. She and Michael both can stay far away from us. We don’t need their meddling. And we certainly don’t need Raphael thinking she can use this as a method of grabbing more power.”

Dean’s wings press tight against his back at the thought.

Noticing the reaction, Cas’ burst of righteous fury fizzles back out, and he seems to remember himself. He’s back to looking like a scared little kid in no time at all, and Dean feels incredibly guilty for it.

“You’re right,” Gabe says. That earns him a pleading look from Cas, leading Dean to believe that the seraph probably wanted to hear anything _but_ that. The archangel purses his lips. “We need to keep this from them for as long as we can. It’s only a matter of time before everyone _has_ to know, and rumors will spread once anyone does, which means we need to keep this as contained as possible for the near future, and aim to eliminate the threat posed by both Raphael and that call to action whenever it comes to fruition, long before this fledging is born. I’ll try to work out some details on that front, and for the time being, I’ll see about making this place a more stable base of operations. It needs to be as safe as possible.”

“Can we boost the warding?” Bobby asks, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees. “I know we already have quite a bit of it, but your friend Hannah showed up right on our doorstep last week. She might not’ve been a threat, but if we’re going on full lockdown against Heaven, then our lines should at least extend to the damn street. And it should only be the two of you allowed in, period.”

Gabe nods. “We can make that happen. I can teach you guys a new range of wards, and we can get them painted around to set up a better perimeter. They’ll have to be heavy-duty, but that shouldn’t be a problem.”

Bobby has a few follow-up questions to that, but Dean stops listening there. As interesting as he’s sure the ward-talk has the potential to be, it doesn’t hold _his_ attention at the moment, and try as his might, he can’t keep his eyes off of Cas. Their bond is still filled with static, and it’s really starting to be concerning.

Slowly, Dean extends one of his wings toward Cas, and drags his feathers along the inside of his mate’s nearest wing, rubbing golden-brown against shiny black where he knows Cas is sensitive. He’s hoping to get _some_ sort of reaction out of him, anything to jar the angel out of the downward spiral his thoughts are clearly taking him in. He gets what he wants, too, because as soon as their wings come in contact, Cas startles. He looks almost fearful when he meets Dean’s eyes, and—yeah. They need to leave.

“I think we, uh.” Dean glances at the rest of the assembled group, looking away from Cas only for a moment. The rest of them all seem to be freaked out or stuck processing this new development to some degree, even Bobby, if the tightness around his mouth is anything to go by, but none of them look like they’re about to _pass out_ like Cas still does. That makes Dean feel a little bit better about ditching his sandwich and taking Cas’ hand to tug him a step away. “I think we need a few minutes.”

Cas casts him a look that somehow manages to portray both terror and gratefulness as his hand tightens around his husband’s, nearly to the point of bruising. If the circumstances were any different, Dean might have laughed at how un-Cas-like it is. As it is, though, his mate needs better than that, so Dean just continues to tug him along.

Gabe, obviously seeing the same thing in his brother, waves a hand to encourage them onward. “Yeah, you two go start talking about this. I’ll get these monkeys to start helping me put up extra wards around the house and the property, we’ll let you know when we’re done. You guys are probably going to want to stay in the safe zone as much as possible.”

“Yeah yeah, sure,” Dean replies hastily. “We’ll be back.”

Dean isn’t exactly an expert at flying and taking someone along with him, but he trusts his abilities well enough to feel alright with beating his wings and dragging Cas upstairs with him.

When they land, Cas groans, his free hand raising to press against his temple. “I hate traveling like that.”

Dean shrugs. “Sorry, babe, but I kinda needed to get you out of there. At least I didn’t take us far?”

The corner of Cas’ mouth twitches up in a smile. “Small mercies,” he says, glancing around their bedroom before finally meeting Dean’s gaze. When he does, Dean can practically see the realization that passes through those blue eyes, and he receives only a croaked, “ _Dean_ ,” as warning before the angel is on him.

Cas’ emotional state doesn’t change as he cups Dean’s face in both of his hands, but he seems steadier once the contact has been established, looking less likely to blow over in a strong breeze. His eyes bore into Dean’s, red-and-blue and glowing slightly with grace. Dean is utterly caught in that stare, and couldn’t look away even if he wanted to.

“Dean,” Cas says again, and Dean shivers at the sound of it. “May I… see for myself? I would like to check, as Gabriel did. Please?”

Dean can’t really claim to know what it was that Gabriel _did_ —he was a bit distracted at the time, too busy still freaking out over the word _pregnant_ —but he has no reason to refuse. He nods as much as he can within Cas’ hold, not trusting himself enough to try to answer verbally.

Cas rewards him with a small, grateful smile, then huddles in even closer to Dean than he already was. They’re so close that their noses brush, forcing Dean’s eyes to cross in order to keep Cas in focus. It soon becomes easier to simply let them close, however, because a moment later, Cas’ grace extends out through the bond and drags along his own. With his eyes closed, it’s easier for Dean to picture it as a tangible thing, so that he can follow along with what’s happening.

Mentally, Dean pictures the tendrils of grace that prod along his soul like Cas’ hands, trailing over his body. It feels similarly, at any rate, and Dean can’t help but shiver. Grace-hands brush down his face, trace over the curves of his neck, and shoulders, then sweep over his chest and begin feeling down toward his abdomen.

And then the grace-hands stop. Cas’ grace begins to vibrate, though if it’s excitement or actually terrified trembling, Dean can’t tell.

**_Dean._** In the imaginary space Dean has composed in his head, Cas takes his hands and guides them to the spot he’s found on his stomach. **_Look. Do you see it?_**

Dean’s brow furrows in concentration. It’s already weird to look at his own soul, the golden shine of it both familiar and foreign all at once, and intricately threaded with wisps of Cas’ silvery-blue grace in a way that threatens to distract him from the task at hand—but once he forces himself to ignore the strangeness of it and actually look at the place where Cas is guiding him…

The small bundle of light that’s nestled in against the tangle of Dean’s soul is impossible to miss. Unlike his gold or Cas’ blue, the spot beneath his imaginary fingers is bright-white, a small beacon of light that radiates its own sort of warmth and purity, and thrums in time with Dean’s every breath. Dean pokes at it with his finger-soul, and receives a faint pulse in return.

He comes back to himself with a gasp, eyes flying open while he stumbles back a step. “Cas—Cas, that—”

“Shh, love,” Cas hushes him. His husband catches his hands with his own, gently pulling them up from where they at some point started cradling his flat stomach. Cas strokes his thumbs over the backs of Dean’s hands, then kisses his knuckles. None of it helps Dean to regain his lost ability to breathe.

Cas goes on, outwardly calm despite the exhilaration which has begun to leak from his grace across their bond, “That was our fledgling, Dean. Our offspring.”

Cas’ calm reflects onto Dean, and his burst of panic fizzles back away. And somehow, seeing it, hearing Cas _say_ it… It suddenly all feels real. A giddy, shocked laugh bubbles up from Dean’s chest, making his mate’s smile widen in response.

The angel presses closer, closing the distance between them that had opened up with Dean’s stumble until there’s almost no space between them. His eyes are bright with what can only be called awe as he reaches up to slide his hand along Dean’s jaw, his thumb grazing Dean’s cheekbone. The shudder it’s met with, Dean’s soul vibrating with the touch, has Cas’ eyes darkening. A fraction of a second later, overlarge black wings cocoon around Dean, and he finds himself being yanked into a fervent kiss, the hand on his jaw gone tight while the other has now made itself at home in his hair.  

Dean swears his brain short circuits for a second.

He gets on board quickly, however, because no matter how surprising the turn of events, this is always something he can do.  He grabs Cas by a wing and hauls him in impossibly closer. His lips part in a moan when the move ends up with one of Cas’ thighs working between his own, and his mate takes advantage of the opportunity to slide his tongue into Dean’s mouth.

“Cas, you— _shit_.” He’s cut off by another insistent press of Cas’ lips, his tongue sliding skillfully alongside Dean’s while two firm hands slide down to grip and knead at his ass. For a moment, Cas just holds him like that, and then before Dean can even find two brain cells to rub together to consider objecting (not that he would ever want to), he finds himself hoisted up against the wall. His legs wrap around his husband’s waist automatically, while black wings cocoon around them both, shutting them off from the rest of the world. Dean’s own wings curl along the inside of Cas’ almost of their own accord, layering them together perfectly. It feels so absurdly good that Dean can hardly think, and loses track of what he was going to say.

Cas, however, is much better at keeping his wits about him in any situation. He leaves off of Dean’s mouth a few moments later in favor of mouthing across his jaw toward his neck, dropping in words as he does so. It’s a challenge for Dean to get himself to focus enough to comprehend them, but he somehow manages to make sense of the rumbling against his skin.

“I love you,” is the first thing he catches. Followed closely by, “God, Dean, I love you more than you could ever know. I’ve always known you were perfect, more so than I could ever hope to deserve, but _this_ —”

He cuts himself off, then, and after a quick press of his teeth over the mark at the base of Dean’s neck, finally ends his assault. His forehead comes to rest against Dean’s while they both fight to catch their breath. Even in the relative darkness of their cocoon, Dean can see that his mate’s eyes are bright, red-laced blue that glow with happiness.

Dean tastes nothing but _Cas_ when he licks his lips. “I thought you were freaking out, downstairs.”

“I am,” Cas says, so bluntly that Dean can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of his chest. Cas grins in turn, and continues, “I am overcome with surprise, and, frankly, terrified as to what this may mean, going forward. I am also struggling to comprehend the fact that my Father decided to bless _us_ in this way, when so many others have been barren for so long. It proves that He is not as detached or removed as so many believe Him to be. I counted myself lucky to have been given you at all, and then to be allowed to keep you, after what happened with Azazel. But now _this_ …” He takes a shaky breath, a giveaway for the nerves he’s confessing to having. His wings ripple along Dean’s. “You truly are the best thing to ever happen to me. Do you know that?”

Dean’s cheeks heat with a blush, and he fights the urge to squirm against the wall. “Yeah, well, you’re a sap,” he counters lamely. It’s not like he can deny it, after all, since the same is true in reverse.

Cas smiles at that, but sobers only a moment later, and squints up at him. “Are _you_ freaking out?”

Dean huffs a laugh. “Oh, yeah.” He feels a swell of concern over the bond at that, so he shakes his head and explains, “Cas, the fact that everyone has been calling me out for acting weird when I feel fine was already messing with me. Finding out that it’s because I—a _dude_ —am pregnant, isn’t exactly the answer to the mystery I was expecting, here. I’m still not used to being a damn angel to begin with, having another wrench thrown into things isn’t really great.”

Apparently, though, explaining his feelings wasn’t as much of a help as he was hoping it would be, because Cas deflates somewhat, and the excitement in his grace begins to withdraw. Dean winces, knowing what’s coming before Cas even says it.

“Dean, I… I’m sorry. If this isn’t something that you—”

Dean slaps a hand across his mouth before he can finish. He resolutely ignores the bolt of _wrongness_ that shoots through his core at the idea of Cas being sorry for this development, shoving it down as far as he can to let it be a problem for another time.

“Stop,” he tells Cas, earning a set of narrowed eyes from the angel. Which is fair, Dean supposes. He kind of already took the option away, anyways. He rolls his eyes. “Listen, just—that’s not what I meant. I’m freaking out, yeah, because this is the weirdest fucking thing to _ever_ happen to me, and that’s really saying something, but…” He shrugs, a shoulder and wing moving in sync. “Kids are cool. Can’t say I’m really ready to be a dad, and this isn’t how I imagined it would ever happen, but if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s rolling with the punches.”

Unlike his last attempt, _that_ was clearly the right thing to say. Cas looks pleased, more and more so by the second as he soaks in Dean’s acceptance, and his scent becomes so thick with happiness that Dean is convinced the sweet honey of it will actually give him cavities. He’s sure his own scent isn’t much better off, of course, because the positive feedback loop of their bond is spinning him up so high that he feels dizzy with it, but he doesn’t care.

With as rough as the last week has been, it feels good to have something to be happy about.

Clearly agreeing with that sentiment, Cas leans in to nuzzle at Dean’s neck, and nips teasingly at the mating bite. There’s no manly way to describe the noise that falls from Dean’s lips in answer, and he can’t even bring himself to be ashamed of that fact.

Then, without warning, Cas drops Dean back to his feet, and his wings withdraw slightly to let more light into their personal bubble. Dean blinks, then raises an eyebrow in question. Cas kisses him again before Dean can actually ask what he’s doing, and then provides the answer all on his own, by sliding down to his knees.

Dean’s mouth goes dry. “Um. Cas?”

The corner of Cas’ lips quirk up in a smile. “Just give me a moment, beloved.” He leans forward, then, getting awfully close to the zipper of Dean’s jeans, as Dean really can’t _not_ notice--and then he pushes Dean’s shirt up to expose his stomach, and presses a kiss to the soft skin there.

Dean blinks rapidly. Not what he expected, but… not bad? God, he’s only half an hour into this thing, and he’s already coming to the realization that Cas as an expectant father is the best version of Cas. How is it even possible for anyone to be so adorable? Kissing Dean against the wall one moment, then peppering reverential kisses over a nonexistent baby bump the next.

Cas, hearing these thoughts as easily as if they were spoken aloud, beams up at him. “You didn’t think I was going to miss the chance to do this, did you? You know I’ll take any excuse to worship your body. The fact that you’re giving life to our child only gives me more reason to press my love into every inch of your skin.”

Dean flushes, going pink all the way up to the tips of his ears. It’s amazing how easy it is for Cas to just _say_ things like that. He’s not sure that he’ll ever get used to it. “This is a bit G-rated for the typical body worshipping you do while in this position, wouldn’t you say?” he tries to deflect. If Cas notices the tears that Dean can feel gathering at the corners of his eyes, it’ll just encourage him to say sappy shit like that more, and Dean can’t have that.

Cas cocks his head to the side, considering for a moment, and then a devilish grin spreads across his face. “Perhaps I can do it both ways?”

“What the hell does— _Oh, fuck, Cas_.”

Before Dean could even finish his sentence, his clothing disappeared with a well-placed burst of Cas’ grace, and the angel’s lips were wrapping around his cock. He hadn’t been expecting things to go this way, so he isn’t hard, but with Cas’ mouth on him, he quickly becomes so, his downstairs brain making the executive decision that he is _so_ on board with this.

Cas’ mouth is hot, and wet, and absolutely perfect. He pulls out all the stops, much to Dean’s chagrin, because as incredible as it feels when Cas bobs his head and swirls his tongue over and around the head of his cock, Dean knows he won’t last nearly as long as he wishes he were able to.

When he comes only minutes later, it’s with Cas’ blue eyes gazing up at him, soft and filled with so much damn love and affection that Dean feels like he’s drowning in it. He cards shaking fingers through Cas’ hair while his hips rock through his orgasm, and the angel’s hands on his thighs keep him steady until he no longer feels like his legs are going to give out from under him. Cas pulls off gently and swipes his tongue across his bottom lip, earning an extra groan from Dean, then leans his forehead against Dean’s hip and presses a kiss to the skin there.

The mutual feeling of, _I love you_ , resonates across their bond, unspoken.

Neither of them notices when the bedroom door opens. It is, however, impossible to ignore the inhuman screech that leaves Sam’s mouth, or the sound of his ass connecting with the floor of the hallway when his attempt at a quick escape ends with him tripping over the runner.

“God damnit, I fucking _hate_ you guys! Go farther than upstairs, you fiends!”

Dean cloaks himself and Cas in his wings in a mid for modesty, his cheeks burning. “Damnit, Sammy, this is why we _knock_!”

Cas, the bastard, still on his knees, just chuckles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about mpreg: 
> 
> Mpreg isn't for everyone. And that's fine! Everyone has their lines they don't want to cross, and I respect that, so if any of you taking the time to read this note fall under that umbrella with this subject, I urge you to stay in your comfort zone. I won't be offended. Even if you don't like pregnancy in general, as one person told me, that's also fine. Full disclosure, though... I'm also not crazy about pregnancy. I don't like all the gooey details some people go into while writing about it, I don't like it when people turn mpreg into a fetish thing. Which is why I don't be doing either of those things. 
> 
> As far as this version of mpreg is concerned: these aren't humans. This isn't normal to this 'verse, as far as the main cast of characters isn't concerned. As the pregnancy progresses, nothing is going to be in extreme or elaborate detail. Although, even if it is, the important part of the pregnancy happens on the grace/soul level, so the physical side of really doesn't need to be explored too much, anyway. Hopefully. The pregnancy really isn't my emphasis, though, is the point. But if it's still an issue, or if you're still concerned for any reason, please let me know, because I'd like to help. I'm already planning on adding chapter-by-chapter warnings for the pregnancy related content in the notes, and I don't mind doing more of that or doing it in a different way, if need be. 
> 
> I have a lot of story coming up that I'm really excited for, and the pregnancy (and what comes after) aren't even the center-most piece of the web. I'd love to talk more about this with anyone who wants to, be it in the comments, or over on tumblr. Open dialogue is the best dialogue. <3 
> 
> If you read this: Thanks. I love you. ^_^


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Dean and Cas had their chance to talk and start coming to terms with the fact that they have a fledgling on the way, the bubble of happiness they had found was almost immediately popped by Gabriel. When they had eventually made their way back downstairs, the archangel had been waiting for them, and announced that with the new wave of warding up, Dean wouldn’t be safe anywhere but within their boundaries, and so wasn’t allowed to leave. 
> 
> “For the entire pregnancy?” Dean had asked in disbelief, to which Gabriel had simply flashed a tight smile and said, “Get cozy, buddy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, a new chapter, can you believe it? I certainly can't. Had to fight a bit with this one, but friends, with what I have planned next, I think I'm about to hit my stride, let me tell you. I have Big Plans. 
> 
> New since last chapter: [From Grace and Uniform](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12160416/chapters/27597207) is posting! Co-written with [saltnhalo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo), and a fic I'm extremely excited to be sharing. It's been a long time in the making. Chapter three went up today, and it's updating twice a week! Take a second and go check out the tags and summary, and see if you might be interested in giving it a read? If you do, I'll love you forever. (Okay, I'll love you forever anyways, but still.) Thanks. <3 
> 
> Notes on mpreg content for the chapter will be given in the end notes. 
> 
> And finally: Enjoy. <3

It’s mid-morning, and with only four inhabitants, Bobby’s house is far quieter than it has been in previous days. Which, of course, means that Dean’s pool of options is significantly narrowed, and unfortunately for Sam, he’s the only one in sight when Dean comes downstairs in search of a… well, not a _victim_ , as such.

Okay, maybe just a little bit of a victim.

Dean grins as he saunters over to the couch where his little brother has managed to curl up with a book.

“Hey Sammy, you wanna do me a favor?”

Without so much as looking up from his book, Sam says, “No.”

Dean puts his hands on his hips. “Oh, _come on_. Why not?”

“No.”

“Don’t be a bitch, Sammy. Is this because you walked in on me and Cas? _Still_? It’s been three days! Anyways, I’ll have you know that blowjobs are—”

“No!” Sam finally looks up, then, eyes gone wide with panic. He shoots a hand out toward his brother, like that might be what deters him. “God, Dean, _please_ don’t lecture me on blowjobs. Just let me be traumatized in peace. I’m begging you.”

Dean raises an eyebrow, and has to fight to hold back a smile. “Do me a favor and I won’t lecture you on blowjobs.”

For a second, Sam looks genuinely torn, but eventually the threat of a blowjob lecture wins out, “ _Fine_ , yeah, I’ll do it.” He pushes his shaggy hair back behind his ears, and gives Dean an unimpressed look. “What do you want?”

Dean drops down onto the opposite end of the couch from his brother, and props his feet up on the coffee table. Sam watches him, looking increasingly more suspicious, until Dean’s lips split into a grin. “How do you feel about going to get me some Chinese food?”

Sam blinks, like he can’t believe that _this_ was the reason that Dean interrupted his reading. “You’re joking.”

“I never joke about Chinese food, little brother.”

“I’m not going all the way into town to get you Chinese food, Dean!” Sam practically shouts, flailing an arm out in frustration. “We have food here, Jess and I just did a grocery run yesterday. There’s even some orange chicken in the freezer that you can make if you really want it.”

Dean groans. “That’s not the _same_. Sam, come on. I’d go get it myself if I could, but I’m not even allowed to see the sun! I’m not allowed to _leave_ , remember? Everyone made that _perfectly_ clear.”

After Dean and Cas had their chance to talk and start coming to terms with the fact that they have a fledgling on the way, the bubble of happiness they had found was almost immediately popped by Gabriel. When they had eventually made their way back downstairs, the archangel had been waiting for them, and announced that with the new wave of warding up, Dean wouldn’t be safe anywhere but within their boundaries, and so wasn’t allowed to leave.

“For the entire pregnancy?” Dean had asked in disbelief, to which Gabriel had simply flashed a tight smile and said, “Get cozy, buddy.”

And while that was miserable right from the start—Dean wasn’t _designed_ to stay in one place forever, damnit—it hadn’t been as bad as it could have been. Gabe hung around for the first day, always lurking in Dean’s vicinity and alternating between giving him odd looks and beaming like Dean was the best thing to ever happen, up until he realized he couldn’t ignore his responsibilities in Heaven indefinitely and took off. Cas was still practically glued to Dean’s side, though, and radiating happiness. It was easy to forget all of the stresses that were heading their way at that point, and simply enjoy himself and his husband’s company.

Where things inevitably got shitty was when Gabe called for Cas to come join him for an emergency strategy meeting, early the previous morning. The other shoe that they’d all been fearing was finally beginning to drop; a squad of demons had jumped a group of Gabriel’s angels doing recon along the border of Hell, and slaughtered over half of them before an opening had come for them to retreat.

Dean wasn’t about to object when Cas turned white as a sheet, and told him he had to go.

But that’s how they’ve gotten to this point. It was easy for Dean to forget that he’s under house arrest while his mate was with him every second of the day, but now that he’s gone again, now that he’s potentially in _danger_ , Dean is back to being nearly as irritable as he was before they found out that he’s pregnant. Knowing helps him to keep his mood swings in check more than he was doing before, but he’s still irritable, and being trapped isn’t helping anything.

Being reminded of Dean’s caged state has the desired effect, at least, and Sam instantly softens. He closes his book and leans forward, getting that _important talk_ look as he stares at his brother. “Dean, you know staying here is for the best. Even if not for the fact that you have a _kid_ you don’t want to endanger, just being Cas’ mate could put you on Raphael’s hit list. If Hell is already giving Gabe grief, we don’t want to give them access to an even more valuable target.”

Dean knows that he’s right. Of course he does. He _knows_ that it’s best for everyone if he stays out of sight—the logic isn’t hard to follow. And as long as there’s no possibility of causing Cas additional pain (which is the only thing that would come of Dean being captured), he’ll shut his trap, and do as he’s told.

But it still sucks ass, and he thinks he’s earned some bitching.

 “I’m not _complaining_ about being kept safe, man,” he says on a sigh, “just fighting the cabin fever. So can you _please_ get me some Chinese? I’m having a craving, man, I can’t get it out of my head.”

Calling it a craving breaks down the last of Sam’s defenses. He visibly wilts, then sucks in a breath and pushes up to his feet. “Yeah, yeah, alright. As long as you’re not getting yourself into trouble, I’ll make a run into town. Happy?”

Dean flashes him a wide grin. “Definitely. You’re a good man, Sammy. And you’re gonna be a great uncle.”

Sam turns away to grab his wallet and the keys to the Impala, but even with his back partially turned, Dean can see how sappy his brother is still getting at that word. _Uncle_. Not that Dean can blame him; it’s a weird concept no matter how it’s sliced, be it that Dean’s going to be a dad, that Sam’s going to be an uncle, or that Bobby (as Dean has already informed him, to be met with tearful eyes and a few gruff tugs on the old man’s ever-present trucker hat) is going to be a grandfather.

“Yeah, well.” Sam clears his throat, like that will somehow keep Dean from noticing how emotional he is. “You better name the kid after me, after all this effort I’m putting in.

Dean can’t help but laugh at that. “If it’s a girl, I’ll call her Samantha. And one day when she asks me why, I’ll tell her it’s because one time, Uncle Sam bought her daddy some mediocre Chinese food, and he was eternally grateful.”

Sam rolls his eyes, but he does chuckle, which Dean counts as a win. “You’re such a jerk.”

“Bitch,” Dean shoots back automatically. Sam waves to him on his way out the door, and Dean returns the gesture with a lazy, one-fingered salute.

And then he’s alone. And completely without a distraction.

He stays on the couch for a few more minutes, drumming his fingertips against his thigh in a poor rendition of _Enter Sandman_. It’s only after he gets caught in a loop of playing out the chorus over and over again that he realizes it’s a piss-poor way to pass time, and shoves off of the couch so that he can set off to find something else to occupy his mind.

Maybe he’ll try Bobby.

 

~

 

Bobby, it turns out, is neck-deep in research for some case a hunter coming through the Roadhouse needed help with. The poor bastard got in over his head with an Ōkami, and Bobby, being the hunter community’s resident expert in the rare sightings category, had been the first on Ellen’s reference list. He seems suspicious from the moment Dean volunteers to help, but he _does_ let Dean help, which is what matters.

That is, until it turns out that most of the texts Bobby is combing through are written in Japanese, and Dean starts asking Bobby directly for translations of all of the characters he can’t find in the pocket dictionary he was given. Letting Dean help turns out to be more work than it’s worth, then, and Dean swiftly gets kicked out of the basement workstation Bobby has set up.

He checks the clock on his phone, hoping that it’s been nearly the hour (minimum) that Sam’s errand will take.

It’s been twenty minutes since his brother left.

Dean groans aloud and goes off in search of Jess.

But as he quickly discovers, Jess is even less helpful than Bobby; she’s lying on her and Sam’s bed when Dean finds her, talking animatedly on the phone. From what he can gather from the snippets he hears from outside the bedroom door, she sounds like she’s talking to her dad or step-mom. Dean isn’t about to interrupt family time just because he’s bored, so he slinks back down the stairs without even making his presence known.

And that’s how he ends up reverting to his default busy-activity of cleaning the house. It’s not fun, or engaging in any way, but it keeps his hands busy, so he’s satisfied. He does what dishes are in the sink and scrubs the kitchen until it’s spotless, then starts picking up odds and ends that are out of place in the living room, and Bobby’s study. He vacuums, sweeps, and is on the brink of hunting down a rag that he can dust with when he finds it, caught under the edge of the loveseat in the living room.

Another one of Cas’ feathers.

By this point, he’s found a few of them lying around, but that’s mostly been when Cas is there, or in places like their bedroom, where it seems easier for his wings to be ruffled enough for loose ones to fall out. He doesn’t know how long this one has been sitting abandoned, or how he failed to notice it sooner. He doesn’t hesitate to scoop it up, though, and after a quick check to make sure that Bobby is still in the basement and Jess is still her room, he holds it to his chest and smuggles it up to his bedroom, where it gets tucked into his pillowcase with the rest of his small collection.

He has to keep the feathers on the underside of his pillow to keep them from being visible through the thin case, but even like that, he can still smell Cas almost as well as if his mate was actually there when he presses his face into it. It only gets better with every feather that he adds, too; if he wasn’t sure that Cas would treat him like he’s lost his mind for doing it, he might have considered even going so far as to ask directly for a few more spares, just to pad out his guilty pleasure.

But of course, Cas _would_ treat him like he’s lost his mind for doing it, because Dean is convinced that that’s exactly what has happened. What other explanation is there for hoarding _feathers_? It’s like collecting hair. And that’s just gross.

As long as Cas doesn’t find out about it, though… Well. What’s the harm?

Just as it always does, breathing in Cas’ scent through the feathers fills Dean with a bone-deep sense of ease. When he brought the newest feather upstairs, he had done so with the intention of returning to his cleaning afterwards, but now that plan is becoming more and more distant with every second that passes. His bed is warm and comfortable, and smells like him and Cas. Maybe… leaving it wouldn’t be so bad.

However, there’s an itch inside of him that says it’s not quite right. The bed is good as it is, but it could be better.

(It could be _perfect_ , if Cas were actually there, but since he’s not, Dean will settle for _better_.)

He follows the itch without thought, going to the closet in the hall that houses extra blankets and sheet sets. He selects a heavy, wool blanket from one of the highest shelves, and totes it back to his room. Once it’s spread over the bed, he feels marginally better. He wants some extra weight on him while he sleeps—sue him.

It turns out to be the perfect addition, too, because as soon as he strips down to his underwear and slides between the sheets, he feels utterly content. The wool blanket is heavy enough to ensure that the rest of the bedding presses in on him from all sides, covering his wings in a way like Cas’ might. Between that and the abundance of his mate’s scent right against his face, it’s almost absurd how easy it is for Dean to fall asleep, especially considering the fact that he hadn’t even been tired until that point.

If nothing else, he supposes as his consciousness fades, at least it’s a good way to pass the time.

 

~

 

When Dean trudges back down the stairs, a couple hours after his spontaneous decision to nap, he finds Sam and Jess curled together on the couch in the living room. He takes a glance at the movie they’re watching, gathers that it’s something about a lawyer who wears a lot of pink, and easily passes it off as something he’s not at all interested in.

“It’s _good_ ,” Jess defends with a laugh, clearly seeing the judgmental look that Dean passed their way. She hooks a thumb over her shoulder at Sam. “He picked it, anyway.”

Sam just shrugs. “I’m pre-law. It appeals to me.” He sits up a bit, then, rising up from behind Jess and gesturing toward the kitchen. “Hey, your Chinese is in the fridge. I didn’t want to wake you up.”  

Dean nods and heads that way, tossing a, “Thanks, Sam,” over his shoulder as he goes.

The smell of chow mein assaults his senses as soon as he opens the door of the fridge, but instead of being appetizing like he had hoped it would be, it curdles his stomach, and nearly makes him gag. He hurriedly closes the door again, pressing his nose into the crook of his elbow while he fights back the bile threatening to rise in his throat. When he’s recovered, he staggers away from the fridge, eyes watering and appetite lost.

So much for his craving.

He’s come all the way to the kitchen, though, so he’s not going to turn around and leave empty-handed. His need to eat has passed, but out of an urge to do _something_ , he rifles through the cabinets until he stumbles across a box of hot chocolate powder—and just like that, he has purpose again.

Hot chocolate, of course, isn’t any good if it’s made with water, which means braving the fridge again to retrieve the milk. The anticipation of it almost deters Dean, but the reward is worth the risk. He tucks the lower half of his face into the neck of his Henley and holds his breath, then rips the fridge open, grabs the jug of milk, and quickly slams it back closed.

Nailed it.

He uses Bobby’s kettle for the milk, setting a reasonable measurement over one of the burners on the stove to heat. He fiddles around with other preparations while he waits for it to come to temp, getting out a mug and a spoon, and is considering trying to find marshmallows or chocolate sauce when Sam comes shuffling in.

“What’s up, Sammy? Care for a drink?” Dean grins, though the expression doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m making the good stuff.”

His brother eyes the stove warily, and huffs softly in amusement. “Cocoa and Chinese food? Really?”

Dean wrinkles his nose, but turns resolutely toward the stove and says nothing.

Sam, obviously, knows him well enough to know exactly what that means. A beat passes, and then he says flatly, “You’re kidding.”

Dean lifts a wing in a shrug.

“Dude, come on. Did you even try it?”

“I don’t want it right now.”

“Seriously? What happened, why not?”

Dean’s wings twitch in agitation. Why is this something that’s now bringing down so much questioning? “It smells like a dirty gym sock,” he defends, pouring hot milk into his chosen coffee mug and then stirring the powdered chocolate in with far too much vigor. “I’m not putting something that smells like that inside my body.”

Sam makes a strangled sound, one that Dean doesn’t know whether he should interpret as a laugh or a groan. Whatever it is, it’s frustrated. “You couldn’t have made that decision _before_ I spent an hour and a half in the car?”

Dean slams his stir-spoon down against the counter with so much force that he feels the thin metal bend beneath the weight of his palm. He spares a quick second to be grateful that he’s damaging the silverware, not the counter beneath it. He feels like a live-wire, energy coursing through him without an outlet; if he were to let himself snap, who knows what would happen. He thinks he sees the lights start to flicker, but stubbornly pretends that he doesn’t.

“I’m sorry you wasted your damn precious time, alright?” he spits at his brother, the beginnings of a growl rumbling in his chest. “It’ll save till tomorrow. Or someone else can have it. I don’t care. I just _don’t_ _want it_. So leave me the fuck alone.”

He tosses the bent spoon into the sink, then grabs his hot chocolate—not nearly as fancy as he had wanted it to be, but he’ll be damned before he hangs around in the kitchen any more than is necessary right now—and storms off toward his room, side-stepping a silent Sam as he goes. He hears Jess call his name as he stomps up the stairs, undoubtedly having heard at least some of what transpired, but he doesn’t stop. He beelines for his room, closes the door firmly behind himself and flicks it locked, then beats his wings and leaves the house.

Gabe discouraged him from going outside, but technically, Dean wasn’t prohibited from it. His exit will ensure that everyone thinks he’s in bed for the night, so as he wanders further and further away from the boundaries of his cage, he knows there’s no chance of being found out. The sun is well on its way toward setting, which as far as Dean can tell, means that he’ll have the cover of darkness to keep him from being too obvious, out where he can (hypothetically) be seen.

He goes as far out as he dares, venturing just past the junk yard to the back boundary of Bobby’s property. The line is defined by a decrepit wooden fence that comes up no higher than Dean’s knee, marked at regular intervals with scribbles of dried blood. When he lowers himself to sit cross-legged in the overgrown grass, Dean can feel the whisper of the wards’ magic against his skin, washing over him like ripples in a pond. He’s never noticed the effect before, but sitting out in the quiet as he is, and this close to the front line of defense, it’s impossible to miss.

Each of Dean’s exhalations creates a fog in front of his face, the frigid evening air condensing his breath as soon as it leaves him. His grace keeps the rest of him adequately warm, at least, though he still drapes his wings over his shoulders to keep the winter breeze at bay. Between that and the mug of steaming cocoa cradled between his palms, he’s more than content. Distance. Privacy. This is what he’s needed.

God, he’s missed being outside. Even the cold, February weather can’t change his mind on that.

February. He and Cas should try to find time to do something for Valentine’s Day. His birthday already passed without much fanfare—he shares the date with Jess, which meant there was a family dinner and a small exchange of gifts; splitting off to spend more than just the night alone with Cas would have meant shirking the birthday girl, which he wouldn’t dare do—and given the amount of extra affection Cas has been heaping onto him lately, even before the label of ‘pregnant’ was stuck onto him, Dean’s confident that Valentine’s could be a worthwhile experience.

Maybe when Cas comes back, Dean will suggest it. Schedule their time in advance, so Cas can make sure he’s available.

Damnit, when did Dean become such a _housewife_? Pining over his own husband, wondering when he’ll be home from work, anxious about the holidays they will or won’t get to spend together. He lets out a heavy sigh, his shoulders hunching with the weight of all that they carry.

He can’t wait for this whole _war_ thing to be over. It’s hardly even started, and he’s already tired of the strain.

Or maybe if he could help with all that’s happening, it wouldn’t be so bad. It’s only been a few days, but already, sitting idle is starting to wear on him.

But, he figures, that’s probably something he’s just going to have to get used to. After all, once that little bundle of light inside of him grows and he and Cas suddenly have a baby on their hands, he’s not going to have a whole lot of alternatives. War notwithstanding, he knows from experience that hunting with kids isn’t a good idea. And he won’t be a repeat of John.

He _won’t_.

That’s not a path he wants his thoughts to go down right now, though. He came outside to breathe, and to relax. Not stress about how ill-prepared he is to be a father, how predestined he probably is to be like his own dad. He doesn’t want to think about that right now. He doesn’t want to think about it at all.

But for fuck’s sake, six months prior, he was working as a _stripper_. How in the hell did he get from there, to here?

“Excuse me—”

Dean nearly jumps out of his skin at the sound of the unknown voice, his wings flailing while he scrambles to his feet. His untouched hot chocolate only barely manages to remain upright in Dean’s haste to set it aside in the grass. The speaker—an angel, completely unfamiliar, soft, golden wings at his back—is standing just on the opposite side of the warded fence, a scroll held loosely in one of his hands and eyes wide with surprise. He doesn’t seem outwardly hostile, but Dean knows better than to trust that.

As soon as he’s on his feet, Dean shifts into a defensive stance. His wings flare wide, held in a way that he hopes comes off as intimidatingly as he needs it to. He’s already wound tight,

_Make one wrong move, and I will kill you_.

Subtly, so as not to attract the angel’s notice, Dean twists his wrist like Gabriel taught him, trying to summon his blade. Despite the tingle of grace he thinks he feels along his forearm, his palm remains stubbornly empty; he swears internally, and revises his previous mental statement.

_Make one wrong move, and I’ll do_ something.

Not quite as intimidating, but it works. He only barely resists the sudden urge to hold a protective hand over his stomach. His instinct is to shield the life that is only just beginning to grow there, but thankfully, logic kicks in before that instinct can take over.

No one is supposed to know that he exists at all. If he gives away the fact that he’s pregnant in the same fuck up that he gave up his wings, Gabe might actually kill him.

The unknown angel is still silent, clearly awestruck by the display of Dean’s golden-brown wings and (hopefully) uncertain in the face of the aggression he has been greeted with. It makes Dean feel somehow both reassured and objectified at the same time. And isn’t that a fun combination.

“What do you want?” he growls out, and takes some delight out of the fact that the angel visibly startles.

“I—I’m sorry,” he stutters, finally meeting Dean’s eyes. “From a distance, I saw the coloring of your wings, and assumed you to be Gabriel. You are…?” His eyes roam over Dean’s wings once more as he trails off.

A muscle ticks in the side of Dean’s jaw. “Not Gabe. He’s not here right now. So again, what do you want?”

The angel’s wings twitch in blatant disappointment over the lack of an answer he received, but he presses on regardless, and holds out the scroll. He holds it aloft just over the ward line, so that when Dean reaches out to take it, neither of them cross the boundary.

“Correspondence from Michael. Gabriel has requested to speak with him, and now that Michael is ready to speak, his brother is unreachable. If you could please pass that along to him, or to your mate.”

Dean’s gaze had dropped momentarily to inspect the intricate gold markings that encase the scroll, but as soon as the angel says the word _mate_ , his eyes snap back up again. _Caught_. He clearly isn’t Gabriel’s, though, and Michael’s division already found out months ago that Cas had a human mate. Even if the development doesn’t make sense, it’s probably an easy enough line to draw.

He nods vaguely, stomach knotted with too many nerves for him to speak.

The angel answers with a too-bright smile. “Thank you. Have a good night.” He ducks his head, then disappears in a swish of pale wings.

After he’s gone, Dean’s wings droop to the ground, the tension leaving his body so quickly that he feels dizzy. The encounter left him reeling; the angel’s final smile didn’t sit right with him, made him feel like there was something he was missing. He tries to think back to what he knows of angels aside from the ones in his family, combing through his memories of his and Cas’ trip to Michael’s headquarters in Heaven. And then it hits him.

If the angel hadn’t known for sure that Dean was Cas’ mate, he did after Dean confirmed it through his reaction. That angel now knows exactly who Dean is, and knows that he’s now more angel himself than human. And if that angel knows, then it’s only a matter of time before the rest of them do.

Angels are insufferable gossips.

Dean presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. “Son of a _bitch_.”

Gabe and Cas are going to kill him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mpreg! 
> 
> I want to put this note here like I promised that I would, but it's bare-bones. Only references to the fact that Dean is pregnant, including worry over being a father, teasing with Sam about his upcoming status as an uncle and joking about the fledgling's potential name, and vague pregnancy behavior (i.e. cravings and some nesting behavior). All very vanilla. <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **_Dean. Don’t draw attention to yourself, and no matter what, do not let her touch you. She cannot examine your grace._ **
> 
> **_Is this—_ **
> 
> **_Yes.  
> _ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said this chapter should be easy to write? HA. (And here I am doing a middle of the night (my timezone, at least) update. What is this, chapter six of For Every Alpha? WHAT YEAR IS IT.)
> 
> I did some mental calculating with the plot I have in mind for this fic, and friends... It's gonna be a bit of a long haul. Strap in. I don't half ass things, and this fic is definitely no exception.
> 
> And this chapter is wild, so hold onto your butts. 
> 
> (Pregnancy notes at the end - pretty clear this chapter, though)

Cas, as could only have been expected, is not pleased.

By the time Dean finds the energy to fly himself back to his room, he can already feel Cas waiting for him over the bond, the angel summoned by his mate’s obvious distress. Cas arrives in the bedroom only seconds after Dean does, and immediately cups the man’s face in his hands.

“Dean, what happened? Where were you? These wardings make it hard for me to know your exact location, but you weren’t in here or downstairs—”

Dean sighs heavily, and Cas falls silent in expectation of an answer. The uncertainty in his husband’s eyes, the fear that has the blue of his stare burning too bright, is more than enough to have guilt joining the other emotions already pooling in Dean’s gut. His stomach twists, and he pulls out of Cas’ hands as gently as he can manage.

“I, uh.” Dean clears his throat, ducks his head to avoid Cas’ gaze. “I went outside. And because my luck is shit, some angel of Michael’s showed up. Saw my wings and thought I was Gabe.”

Cas sucks in a sharp breath, and Dean winces. “Someone saw you.”

“Yeah.” Dean holds up the scroll the angel had given him, offering it to Cas. “Asked me to give you this.”

Even without looking at his mate, Dean can tell that Cas is hesitant to accept the scroll. He’s probably stuck processing what it means for Dean to have been seen by one of Michael’s angels, if Dean had to guess. Cas’ mind is open to the bond, meaning he could easily focus in and find out if his hunch is correct, but he doesn’t care enough. He’s tired, defeated, and definitely doesn’t want to be bitched out like he’s sure he’s going to be for this. He doesn’t need the _I told you so_ , doesn’t need to hear every member of his family reiterate the importance of his lockdown like they’re inevitably going to.

But of course, there’s no way he’s going to be allowed even out to the yard now. Not unaccompanied, at the very least.

Just the thought makes Dean want to scream.

He raises his gaze just high enough to be able to see Cas’ long fingers wrap around the end of the scroll. As soon as it has transferred hands, the heavy weight of it gone from Dean’s palm, Dean lets his empty hand fall back to his side, and slumps toward the bed without saying another word.

Cas’ feathers rustle, his wings shifting. “Dean?”

Dean shakes his head. “Cas, just…” He eases himself down onto the side of the bed, then finally turns back to his mate, the droop of his wings giving away his exhaustion. “Can we sleep? I fucked up, I know. And I’m sure I’m due for a lecture or three because of it, but if I could get a raincheck until at least morning, I’d really appreciate it.” 

Cas’ knuckles are white around the silver-and-gold casing of the scroll. He looks torn, staring at it, then Dean, then back again. It goes on for too long. Long enough that Dean gives up, heaving a sigh and twisting around to curl himself up in the bed, wings tight around him. He’s considering reaching for his wool blanket to seal himself in, but before he can make himself move, the mattress dips behind him.

Cas settles in against his back, an arm circling his waist and overlarge black wings swaddling them both. Dean practically melts back against him, too grateful for words. He lets it show in the bond, and receives a soft pulse of affection in return.

“We’ll talk about this in the morning,” Cas whispers against his ear, and Dean nods.

Problems for tomorrow.

 

~

 

Dean dreams.

They’re odd dreams, indistinct things that shuffle and rearrange whenever he tries to get a grasp on them. Flashes of light and high-pitched voices, a thrum of energy in his gut and an indescribable itch to run. Walls close in on him. It’s too hot, too cold, there’s an icy blade in his hand and ash on his skin from burnt wings scorched onto cement.

He wakes in a cold sweat.

“Dean? Dean, love, what happened? Are you alright?”

Cas’ touch, normally so warm and reassuring, is too much for Dean to handle right now. He shies away from it without thinking, shimmies his way to the edge of the bed and drops his head into his hands, gasping for breath that he already has yet feels like he can’t get enough of. Distantly, he can feel the fact that Cas is terrified, but the dream—nightmare?—left him with too much soot in his mouth for an explanation to be anywhere near forthcoming.

He’s aware that Cas is still saying his name, but his head is too fuzzy to comprehend the individual words. He doesn’t know how much time passes before he manages to shake his head, but he _does_ manage it, and he finds his tongue shortly after.

“Sorry. ‘M fine. I just, uh.” He scrubs his palms across his face. “Weird dream.”

Dean can feel the heat of Cas’ palm hovering over his shoulder, near his handprint, but it never settles. Probably deterred by Dean’s previous reaction to touch. He asks softly, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Dean answers. He pushes up to his feet, but immediately stumbles, nearly losing his balance. He has to carry himself differently when his wings aren’t on his back; he wonders if he should be more concerned than he is that he didn’t even realize they were away. Cas is silent while he tugs on clothes, and though the bond hums with uncertainty, he says nothing. It isn’t until Dean is pulling a t-shirt over his head that the tension finally reaches its breaking point, and Cas sighs heavily, drawing Dean’s eyes back toward his mate.

“Dean—”

Before his sentence can progress any more than that, there’s a sudden commotion downstairs, and a barrage of footsteps up the stairs. Cas is quick to sit up, but hardly has time to do more than exchange a wary look with his husband before their door is being thrown open, and Sam is bursting into their room.

“Dean—Cas.” His eyes stick on Cas after he’s noticed him, clearly not having known that the angel was there. He looks grateful for it, though, and between that and the fear that Sam is practically exuding, Dean has more than enough motivation to follow Cas’ lead and push himself upright.

“Sammy, what—”

“We’ve got a problem.”

Cas’ head suddenly snaps to the side, his eyes distant like he’s focusing on something the rest of them can’t see. A sharp spike of panic resonates the bond into Dean’s mind before the connection shuts down completely. Dean puts a hand on his forearm, but before he can battle past the fear clawing at his throat enough to ask what’s going on, he gets an answer anyways.

“It’s Michael.”

 

~

 

Though Cas dresses himself in a snap and they head out together, Dean feels vastly unprepared as they make their hurried trek downstairs. Not that Cas seems to be feeling any better, of course, because they take the goddamn _stairs_ , for one thing. Cas obviously needs the extra time to think. Dean isn’t going to fault him for that.

By the time they’re in the living room, Cas’ wings are folded against his back, and just as impossible to read as the expressionless mask that has slipped over his features. Jess and Bobby are already in the room, and look up at the trio—Sam being behind Dean and Cas, lips pressed tight with uncertainty.

“I thought this place was warded,” Bobby grumbles, glaring at Cas like it’s _his_ fault that there’s an archangel standing outside. There’s a sawed-off held loosely between his fingers, and his grip flexes, like he’s itching to raise it. “What in the Sam Hill is going on?”

Cas shakes his head. “Gabriel laid down the wards, we will have to ask him when he arrives. _After_ we speak with Michael. Which…” He turns to Dean, then, looking nervous. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to go out there with me. I know he knows of you, after the visit we made to his headquarters a few months ago, so hiding you away now when he knows you are here would only make him suspicious.”

Jess makes a sound of concern. “Won’t he be able to tell that Dean’s pregnant? If Gabe could…”

“ _No_.” Cas says it too sharply, and Dean would think that he was irritated, if it weren’t for the genuine fear that he can feel growing in his husband’s mind. Dean prods at him across the bond, gently encouraging him to calm, and it’s only then that the angel takes a shuddering breath. “No. No, he won’t be able to see that. It’s not blatant yet, and he doesn’t know to look for it. As long as he doesn’t have reason to suspect, and as long as he doesn’t touch Dean, then we’ll be fine.”

“And, uh.” Sam shuffles toward the window and discreetly peers out through a gap in the curtains. Whether he can actually see Michael or not is impossible to tell, but he directs a raised eyebrow back at Cas. “He can’t hear us talking about it?”

“The house is warded against that happening, it’s impenetrable. That much, I do know.” Cas slips his hand into Dean’s, and their bond—reopened in the time since they left their room, their every emotion being shared—pulls taut with nerves. “Ready?”

Dean sucks in a deep breath. Michael. Cas’ old boss, major dick, maybe their enemy, maybe not. No pressure. He shifts his palm against his mate’s to better thread their fingers together, and then with a bit of concentration, hides his wings. Even if Michael will be able to see that he’s more angel than human, he’d rather not push things. And he doesn’t want to be ogled.

He finally answers, “As I’ll ever be.”

Cas nods, and then the two of them are making their way out the front door, Bobby, Sam, and Jess, parting to let them pass and then most likely immediately regrouping toward the windows to watch. Once they’re on the porch, Dean sees him; Michael is tall and imposing, with wings that are just as bright and golden as Gabriel’s. They’re folded similarly to Cas’, the set of them only really able to be described as _professional_.

More than that, though, the archangel isn’t quite what Dean expected. The only archangel he has met is Gabriel, of course, so maybe he was somewhat prepared for Michael to look like Gabriel’s brother to fit the role he plays. Except, Michael looks more like he could be _Cas’_ legitimate brother, than anything. Dark hair, dark blue eyes, sharp jawline. He could easily be seen as attractive.

Not that Dean is at all interested, of course. Or will ever let Cas know that that was an observation that crossed his mind.

“Castiel,” the archangel greets when they are near enough, halfway between the house and the junk yard. “You are looking well. You didn’t transfer to Gabriel all that long ago, and yet it seems like quite a lot has changed for you, hasn’t it.”

Cas inclines his head. “Michael, you are also looking well. I would like to introduce you to my mate.” Cas uses their joined hands to pull Dean slightly closer to his side; Michael eyes their hands with barely-contained interest, then raises his gaze to study Dean himself. The scrutiny makes Dean tense. “Michael, this is Dean Winchester. My true mate.”

Michael arches an eyebrow. “I had heard rumor that you found your true mate in a human, but I wasn’t sure whether or not I should believe it. Very few of our kind have mated with humans. I believe the last was—”

“Gadreel,” Cas is quick to cut in, the sudden spike of tension in the bond more than enough to earn him a sharp glance from Dean, “yes, I know. These circumstances are quite different, I assure you.”

“Oh, are they now.” Michael’s gaze finally slides away from Dean and back to Cas. “Is that why my messenger reported to me what he did after delivering my message last night?”

Oh, shit.

Cas tries to say, “I don’t know what you—”

Michael makes a sharp gesture. “Do not lie to me, Castiel. Even from here, I can tell that your mate is not entirely human. I can see that his soul is bright with your grace. Since I am the only one here at the moment, why don’t you take this opportunity to tell me how this came about.”

Dean can tell that Cas is beginning to unravel, torn between subjects and unsure of how truthfully he should answer Michael’s demand for information, and that’s all Dean needs to know to encourage him to take initiative.

“I got shot,” he tells the archangel, getting right to the point. “Couple weeks after we met. We took down Azazel, but it didn’t go perfectly, and Cas had to use his grace to save me. When we came to after, I had wings.” He gestures toward Cas’ wings, pointing out the tawny-colored dappling that interrupts the otherwise pure black feathers. “And that happened. But that about catches you up.”

At Dean’s side, Cas lets out a quiet breath of relief. Apparently Dean handled his explanation well enough, which, considering it’s the most renowned archangel he’s talking to, is definitely something he’ll take.

Michael’s head cocks to the side, almost like Cas’ tends to do. “How interesting,” he says, sounding surprisingly genuine. “Only a small number of angels have taken humans as mates, but none of those humans have developed wings. I would be interested in seeing how your soul fused with—”

“No no,” Cas quickly interrupts, almost sounding panicked—not that Dean can blame him, because Michael looking that closely at his soul? Bad idea. “We don’t have time for that. I’m sure you’re on a timeline—”

Michael frowns. “Castiel, I mean your mate no harm—”

“Hey, broskis, what did I miss?”

Gabriel appears so suddenly that Dean startles, even more so than he normally would because Gabe lands _right in front of him_ , exactly between him and Michael.

Dean rolls his eyes. **_Subtle, Gabe._**

He gets the equivalent of a mental flick in return.

Michael, though, as Dean sees when he casually steps closer to his husband to be able to see around Gabe, doesn’t seem to notice anything suspicious. He smiles at his brother. “Gabriel, thank you for joining us. I was beginning to wonder if I would have to appoint Castiel to this investigation in your stead.”

All three of them freeze, catching on the new information.

**_Cas, what the hell is he talking about._ **

Gabriel’s wings shift, and he asks with false levity, “Investigation? Did I miss a company memo?”

The other archangel frowns again. “I sent a message to you. My messenger assured me he gave it to Castiel’s mate.”

Dean’s stomach drops. Fuck fuck _fuck_.

Cas is silent across their bond. Gabriel makes a vague gesture, but Dean knows him well enough by now to be able to see that he’s more irritated than he’s letting on.

“I’ve been busy. Haven’t been here to have it passed along yet. Mind filling me in?”

Michael makes a face that makes it clear he isn’t impressed, but ruffles his wings and does as his brother asked. “There is a formal investigation being launched into Uriel’s murder. The initial report was that he was killed by demons, but more evidence has been brought to Raphael’s attention, and it cannot be ignored. We suspect foul play.”

Dean’s ears are ringing. Ash and scorched wings. If that were to come back to him and Cas, if the other archangels were to find out—

“Foul play,” Gabe repeats, like it’s nothing, like it couldn’t potentially bring them all to ruin. “Uriel was the one who was promoted into Cassie’s place in your division, wasn’t he? Who could have wanted him dead? Someone beneath him?”

“That is what we need to find out, brother.”

Cas takes a half step forward. “Michael—”

He’s interrupted by another rustle of wings. A woman stands beside Michael, taller than the archangel, with dark skin and blindingly-bright silver wings. She looks stern, more unfriendly than any other angel Dean has met.

Fear and anger roil in equal measures in Cas’ mind, and that’s more than enough for Dean to understand what’s happening.

**_Dean. Don’t draw attention to yourself, and no matter what, do not let her touch you._ **

**_Is this—_ **

**_Yes._ **

Raphael seems to only have eyes for Gabriel, and gives her brother a tight smile. “Forgive me for being late, brothers. Hopefully you haven’t discussed this too much without me? I had important matters to attend to, I’m sure you understand.”

Michael smiles at her in turn, and Dean has a sudden moment of complete clarity.

They may be fucked, here, but Michael is completely oblivious.

He points this out to Cas, who he can tell then shifts his focus to look out for more evidence in favor of the theory. It might not mean a whole lot, but any lack of unity between Michael and Raphael is a silver lining. And they desperately need a silver lining right now.

“Thank you for joining us, Raphael,” Michael says. “I have already informed Gabriel and Castiel of the investigation. Gabriel.” Michael’s gaze shifts over to Gabe. “We have decided that there will be a taskforce assigned to investigating Uriel’s death, comprised of members of each of our divisions. The three of us will be the final deciding judges when more information is brought forward, so when we find whoever was responsible, you must be able to attend the trial we will hold at a moment’s notice. At least two of us must be in agreement for a judgement to be passed. It has already been decided upon.”

Gabriel sighs, and folds his arms across his chest. “Aren’t there more important things for us to be focusing on? This case is already months old, I don’t know what you’re expecting to find—”

“Uriel was one of my fledglings,” Raphael cuts in sharply, “I will not let his death pass unavenged. Whoever killed him needs to be appropriately punished.” Her lip curls just slightly, and she raises an eyebrow. “Or are you objecting because you know something you don’t want to come to light? Do you know who killed Uriel, brother?”

“I’m not _objecting_ ,” Gabe snaps. “I don’t know who killed Uriel. If you want to investigate, fine, so be it. I’ll put a couple of my angels in, if that’s what you want. When you find something, I’ll be there to help pass judgement. Don’t worry.”

Raphael’s eyes narrow, but she tilts her head in acceptance of the answer. “Thank you for your cooperation. Justice must be found.”

One of Gabe’s wings twitches. “Of course. Now, is that all? I would like to adjourn this meeting, if you don’t mind. Things to do. You know.”

Raphael rolls her eyes, but Michael dips his chin in a nod. “Of course, brother. I will send a messenger when the time comes for you to lend a hand in this. Now that we have spoken about it in person, we can get underway. Please be sure you actually _receive_ our correspondence in the future, though, Gabriel.”

Gabriel clenches his jaw, but nods.

Michael turns his smile to Cas, then to Dean. “Dean. It is good to have finally met you. I look forward to getting to know you more in the future. A human actually worthy of being mated to an angel is an interesting specimen indeed.”

Dean scowls. “The hell is that supposed to—”

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas says, voice low but sharp, and Dean falls silent instantly. Not that it does him any good, of course; Michael still raises an eyebrow at him, not looking impressed with the sass that he was on the brink of receiving, and Raphael…

Dean isn’t sure whether Raphael looks like she wants to laugh at him, or flay him. Regardless of how it’s best interpreted, it makes his blood run cold.

“Ignore him,” Gabe says. The words only manage to redraw Michael’s eyes, while Raphael’s stay firmly on Dean. “He’s a bit of a spitfire, I’m sure you can see how he and Cassie get along.”

Dean glares at the back of Gabriel’s head, still between him and the other two archangels, a spiteful part of him hoping that if he directs enough of his ire into it, Gabe’s hair might catch fire.

 _A bit of a spitfire_. The _fuck_.

“The mud monkey might share Castiel’s grace,” Raphael interjects coolly, drawing Dean’s death-glare toward her, “but that does not make him one of us.”

It shouldn’t, Dean knows it shouldn’t, but that line takes the wind out of his sails. Even knowing that Raphael is their enemy, the callous insults sting. Mud monkey. Not one of them. He can’t really say he _wants_ to be one of them, or at least not anything Raphael might be, and this _really_ isn’t the time for an existential crisis, but for fuck’s sake, if he isn’t a human but isn’t good enough to be an angel, then where the hell does that leave him?

Michael was more blasé toward him than anything, but to now be hit by a one-two punch from Raphael and _Gabe_ , of anyone, his brother-in-law, the archangel he thought he could actually trust?

Dean clenches his hands into fists at his sides to stop them from trembling.

Cas takes a half step forward. “Thank you for your input, Raphael, but I think it’s time you left.”

She shrugs, unrepentant. “That would suit me best; I have places to be. Until next time, brothers.” She inclines her head toward Michael and then Gabriel, then spreads her silver wings and departs.

Michael runs a hand down the front of his suit, straightening the already-straight lines. “It was nice to see you, Castiel,” he says, and then he follows after his sister and takes off for Heaven.

Once the two archangels are gone, Dean lets out a ragged breath. At least that makes things slightly better. “Christ, they need to pull the sticks out of their—”

“That’s enough, Dean!” Gabe snaps, whirling on Dean without warning. His wings flare out, his eyes burn red with aggression, and it’s all so sudden that Dean shrinks back with fear before he even realizes he’s doing it. “You had _one job_ , and that was to keep off of Michael and Raphael’s radars. And yet here you are, doing the exact fucking opposite!”

Dean bristles. “They were being _dicks_ —”

“They _are_ dicks, but it doesn’t matter! You need to learn to keep your mouth shut. There’s a time and a place, and that wasn’t it. Lashing out at them is only going to earn us all more enemies than we already have.”

Dean scowls, and crosses his arms tightly over his chest. Despite how irritated he is with all of this, his stomach is twisted into knots, and guilt pricks at him. He’s never going to admit it, but he knows Gabe has a point. He’s glad, at least, that his wings aren’t visible; he’s sure they’d only give him away if they were.

“I’m not going to apologize,” he tells the fuming archangel. “They don’t get to come here, to _our_ _home_ , and talk shit about me, or humans in general. They can do it all they want in Heaven, but not in my territory.”

“You don’t get to make that choice, Dean,” Gabe says in return. “You weren’t supposed to draw attention to yourself, but instead, you gave Michael reason to want to keep an eye on you, and you’ve given Raphael reason to outright despise you. You showed weakness. You made us _all_ look weak. But then, you probably didn’t even realize that much, did you.”

Cas sighs, finally breaking his silence. Dean hasn’t missed the fact that he has yet to add to the conversation, or step to Dean’s defense in any way. When Dean looks to his husband, he finds him pale, lips pressed thin and brows drawn together. “Gabriel, that isn’t fair to say and you know it. Don’t be cruel. Blame the circumstances, not Dean.”

Gabriel growls in frustration. “The circumstances are _also_ his fault! Dean—what happened to the message you were given? When did that happen?”

That one, Dean does know is his fault. His gaze drops to the dirt. “Last night. I gave it to Cas.”

The archangel turns toward his brother. “And?”

Both Dean and Cas have cut most of their emotions out of their bond, but Dean can still feel his mate’s regret. It’s almost as strong as his own.

“I didn’t open it,” Cas confesses. “I had planned to this morning, but Michael was here before I had the chance.”

“You realize,” Gabe says to his brother, “that that was our only warning. If you two had just been able to _focus_ , for _five minutes_ —”

A snarl rips out of Dean’s throat, and as he steps forward to cut the archangel off, his wings materialize, brown and black feathers stretching high, the display rivaling Gabriel’s. “ _Fuck_ _off_ , Gabe! I didn’t want to talk about it, okay? I’m stressed out as fuck right now, you keep my mate away from me all the goddamn time, and then the one time I get to breathe fresh air, an angel pops up out of thin air and _outs me_ , probably to all of Heaven. Not focusing for _five minutes_ was exactly the point, jackass.”

Dean might be imagining things, but the flat line of Gabe’s mouth seems to look contrite. Only for a second, though, of course—Dean is only so lucky, after all. The guilt disappears so quickly Dean wonders if it was ever actually there to begin with, and the archangel’s expression becomes unreadable, gaze sliding away. His wings still look sharp with agitation, far from relaxed, but they return to a safe space behind his back, golden feathers no longer being leveraged to threaten Dean into silence.

“Castiel, we need to discuss this investigation. Raphael did this intentionally to distract us from what she’s doing, I have no doubt. We can’t let it work.”

And just like that, the subject is changed, and Dean’s angry confession means nothing. He doesn’t know why he’s surprised by that, really, and yet it still leaves a foul taste on his tongue, and sours in his stomach. The most truthful he’s been in god knows how long, and he’s still not listened to.

He thinks he misses a few exchanges of dialogue between the angels, but Dean can’t make himself care. He only focuses back in after the telltale flapping of wings that heralds Gabe’s exit, and locks eyes with Cas. His husband shifts his weight from one foot to the other, wings pressed tight to the back of his beige trench coat.

“I’ll be back in a few hours,” he says, soft and subdued and sounding full of regret. “Don’t listen to Gabriel. He’s scared. I’ll try to calm him down.” He steps forward to press his lips to Dean’s forehead, then takes flight.

Scared. Like that makes any of this okay. Like that’s going to help Dean to sleep tonight, or suddenly make his utterly pointless house arrest feel worthwhile.

Fact of the matter is, it doesn’t. Gabe is still an asshole and the other archangels are still dicks, and _he_ killed Uriel, so that’s just more shit hitting the fan and flying right in his direction. Once that comes to light, it’s game over, whether he’s under house arrest or not, and certainly whether he’s _pregnant_ or not.

None of it fucking matters.

And Dean is sick of it.

It only takes a quick flick of his wings to get inside. In his room, he throws clothes and a handful of essentials into a duffle bag—the Colt included, for good measure—then he flies downstairs, grabs the keys to the Impala, and goes back outside. The car’s engine is started before anyone inside has the chance to even realize what’s happening, and with his side of the bond as near to cut off as he can possibly make it, he has no fear of Cas finding him.

He starts driving, and he doesn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mpreg! 
> 
> Only a few notes on the fact that Dean is pregnant, stated in Dean's narrative and by a couple characters. The important note is that it needs to be kept a secret, but it isn't emphasized for any other reason.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three people dead of exsanguination. Two missing in addition to that. Dean knows a vamp nest when he sees one. And thankfully, since the only mention of the deaths he’s stumbled upon was in a local paper, that should mean that no other hunters who happen to be in the area have picked up on the job yet. 
> 
> _Score._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! 
> 
> Sorry for being gone so long, but look! I'm back! With a huge chapter! I lost the month of November to a crunch on my pinefest fic, but I'm really excited for that, so I'm confident that it's going to be worth it in the end. That'll be posting on March 28th! Exciting, huh? 
> 
> Furthermore, since I haven't updated over here since posting finished--have you guys checked out [From Grace and Uniform](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12160416/chapters/27597207)? I co-wrote it with [saltnhalo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo), and it's pretty damn good, if I do say so myself. Go give it a look if you haven't? ^_^
> 
> Anyways! 
> 
> This fic is a monster and it's going to be so long and sometimes that fills me with existential dread but I'm still really proud of it and it's going to be damn good (I hope) and to everyone reading this and taking this ride to hell with me: Thank you. You're the best. I love you. <3 
> 
> As always: Enjoy. 
> 
> (Mpreg notes at the end)

“Anything else I can get you, sweetheart?”

Dean automatically shields the newspaper article he was reading when he glances up, surprised that he didn’t notice the waitress’s return and operating on instinct. She’s not a threat, though, he soon remembers; she has a sweet face, round and framed by long, blonde hair that reminds Dean of the picture of his mom he keeps in his wallet.

Mary. That could be a good name for a kid. Maybe if he has a daughter…

The waitress raises an eyebrow, redrawing Dean’s focus. He gives her a thin smile.

“Thanks…” He checks the name tag pinned to her yellow uniform. “Angela. I think I’m okay right now, though. I’ll get out of your hair soon enough.”

“Sure thing, handsome,” she replies easily, tossing him a wink for good measure. Dean has to turn his face away to hide the way it sets his teeth on-edge. The woman might not be able to see the scarred imprint of teeth on his neck (or make sense of it, for that matter), but he clearly has a wedding band on his hand; he’s not here for flirting, even of the casual variety. She reaches across the table and pours more decaf coffee into his half-empty mug, and tacks on a, “Take your time,” before disappearing off to the other side of the diner.

Dean only waits a handful of seconds after she’s gone before diving back into his newspaper, poring over the article he had found right as she arrived. It had taken him just over a full day to drive all the way to Columbus, including the stop he made at a motel in St. Louis the night he left Sioux Falls, but it was entirely worth it. Bigger population centers are always bound to have drama in some corner or another—more people means more monsters to prey on them, after all. The article he has in front of him only proves that.

Three people dead of exsanguination. Two missing in addition to that. Dean knows a vamp nest when he sees one. And thankfully, since the only mention of the deaths he’s stumbled upon was in a local paper, that should mean that no other hunters who happen to be in the area have picked up on the job yet.

_Score_.

He pulls his wallet out of his back pocket and tosses a couple bucks onto the table to pay for the lunch he had, managing to even tip a reasonable amount with what he’s got available to him. He might not have been incredibly thrilled with Angela’s flirting—it itches at his instincts to have someone else expressing interest in him, makes him long for Cas, for his husband’s warmth and scent—but that’s not _her_ fault, and Dean’s not an asshole, besides. Still, he avoids even so much as catching her eye as he beelines for the door, and is back in the safety of his car in no time.

The air outside is damn near frigid, so Dean starts up the Impala and then sits back in his seat to let her have a chance to warm up. Angelic body temperature regulation or not, Dean is _cold_ , and would really rather not be. He tips his head back against the headrest while he waits, staring up at the wards he had sharpied onto the roof with unfocused eyes.

He wasn’t even out of Sioux Falls yet by the time he stopped to scribble them into place. Sam, Bobby, and even Jess had tried calling him repeatedly after he took off, and he’d known it was only a matter of time before they started directing their panicked calls toward Cas, instead. And once that happened?

There was no way Dean _wasn’t_ going to be dragged back home, kicking and screaming and with probably not just one, but two pissed off angels standing over him all the while.

And he couldn’t let that happen.

He doesn’t regret warding the Impala. He doesn’t regret carrying a page of wards painted in blood in his back pocket for a mobile version of his invisibility, either. He doesn’t regret turning his phone off as he crossed the South Dakota border. He doesn’t regret choking his bond with Cas down to the absolute bare minimum, where the only thing that’s really left for him to feel around all of his walls is the simple fact that his mate is _alive_ , still connected to him even if they are not as in-tune as they should be.

Dean took to the road like a drug, and like the addict he is, he doesn’t want to go back any time soon. There’s no room for regrets, nothing for him to do but to continue riding this wave.

Everyone back home can be as pissed off as they want to be, but it doesn’t make a damn difference. He needed this too badly. He’s _pregnant_ , not _dead_. He can look after himself, and most importantly, he can still hunt.

When the Impala’s engine has finally had enough time to get warmed up and the heater has taken the chill out of the cab, Dean straightens out his posture, throws her into reverse, and backs out his parking space with a speed that anyone in their right mind would probably deem dangerous. He’s got too much on his mind to care. The Impala’s idle, rumbling purr turns to a roar when he floors it onto the main road. He can see the sharpied warding in his peripheral vision, and it eggs him on, until the dead-end diner with its watery coffee and flirty waitresses disappear from sight in the rearview mirror. He has places to go, thoughts to avoid, problems to ignore.

Freedom always tastes best when it’s obtained out of spite.

And yet, even now, it sits sourly on his tongue.

He shoves a Skynyrd tape into the deck, and cranks the volume up until his thoughts are drowned beneath it.

 

~

 

Hunting itself may be an easier task since Dean’s biology took a turn for the celestial, but unfortunately, being part angel doesn’t make the interviewing process any better. Talking to witnesses and survivors isn’t any less difficult than it’s ever been, especially when it comes to victims’ loved ones.

Dane Johnson, the first of the two missing persons to disappear, left behind a pair of younger siblings and a single mother. He attended the local community college, worked nights to help his mom pay the rent, and was a volunteer assistant coach for his little sister’s soccer team. His family continues to be worried sick about him, despite the fact that he disappeared from a night out with friends nearly two weeks previously. The police have given up hope, but that hasn’t stopped them from printing out flyers and pasting them around town.

Missing brothers, of course, is something that hurts Dean to his core. He has to struggle past the lump in his throat in order to maintain his FBI persona long enough to get out of the Johnson household.

“Yes, ma’am. We’re doing our best to find him. Our investigation is close to finding results. I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure Dane comes home safe. Use that number I gave you if you hear anything new. Yes, I’ll keep you updated on the situation. Thank you, Mrs. Johnson.”

He leaves the Johnson household with a fresh weight on his shoulders, and the stares of Dane’s two sisters glued to his back until he’s out of sight. It’s not an easy thing to get over, and when he pulls up outside of the other missing person’s house, there’s an unshakable funk still hanging over him.

It only gets worse when he talks to Destiny Hernandez’ husband.

“She was out,” the man—Mark—tells Dean. The image is eerily similar to the one he’d been in that morning, with the grieving leftovers of a vamp-abduction sitting opposite Dean, and a funeral-like air hanging over the room despite there being no official death yet to grieve. At least in this house, there’s only Mark. “It was her best friend’s birthday, they were out to celebrate. They said she was talking to some _guy_ , last they saw, but Destiny wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t leave with some stranger, and she wouldn’t get herself into trouble. She knew better.”

The ‘knew better’ nearly earns an eye roll from Dean, but he manages to restrain himself. It’s not what the guy needs, and frankly, the controlling vibe that the statement gave off makes no difference whatsoever in the larger case at hand.

He gives Mark Hernandez the same spiel he gave Mira Johnson. It goes as smoothly as anyone could hope, but in the end, at least Dean has something to show for it.

Dane and Destiny disappeared from bars on the same block, Destiny going only the week before Dane. It’s not a lot, but it gives him a hunting ground, and a hunting ground means there must be a nest nearby. It’s as good of a lead as Dean could have hoped to get, and certainly not something to balk at.

The difficulty comes just when Dean finally stands to leave.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Hernandez,” he begins, “we’re doing our best to find your wife, and it shouldn’t be long now before we find results—”

And then he’s interrupted by a sudden burst of static form across the room, and a wail that echoes through the house. The sound has Dean’s blood turning to ice in his veins, and he goes utterly still.

“Shit. That’ll be Celeste. Give me a minute.” Mark hurries from the room, leaving Dean rooted in place halfway between the living room and the foyer. Thanks to the baby monitor—which Dean finally spots now that he’s looking for it, situated on the mantle between a wedding picture and a baby picture—every word of the man’s soft cooing toward his daughter is perfectly audible in the living room, impossible to ignore with or without Dean’s angelic sense of hearing.

Dane was a big brother. Destiny was a new mother.

If there’s a God still out there somewhere, he’s apparently shitty at being subtle.

The Hernandez residence is only a small rambler, so it isn’t long before Mark is returning, a small, fussy infant nestled in his arms. She can’t be much older than a year, but her head is covered in adorable, dark curls that tug at Dean’s heartstrings. Celeste whines against her father’s collarbone, cheeks ruddy and wet with tears, while Mark hushes her and rubs her back.

“I’m so sorry, Agent Mercury,” Mark says, genuine regret pulling at his features. “It feels like she hasn’t stopped crying since Destiny went missing. Nothing I can do seems good enough to fix that hole, but—” The man’s next breath rattles in his chest. “—I hope you find her. We could use some good news. Both of us.”

Dean swallows thickly, his heart in his throat. He nods, grits out a promise of, “I’m going to do everything in my power, sir,” and then practically flees back to his car. He sees Celeste Hernandez in his mind’s eye all the way back to his motel room, and long after that point, as well. He barely resists the urge to drop a hand to his stomach, the thrum of the new life that’s nestled along his soul suddenly impossible to ignore.

He isn’t quite sure whether his budding maternal instincts are relating Destiny’s fate more to his own fate or Cas’ potential fate, but either way the situation gets sliced, it’s not fun to think about. If they have a kid only for Dean to bite it shortly after, would Cas be able to go on? The surviving mate doesn’t stand much of a chance, Dean knows that from experience, but what if there was a baby in the equation? Could Cas stick it out? Or would he still throw himself into the abyss after Dean and leave their child well and truly an orphan?

If the situation were reversed, would Dean be able to do any different?

He might hold out hope for as long as he could, of course, but in the end, his and Cas’ situation is vastly different from Mark and Destiny’s. If he or Cas die, it won’t be because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time and were kidnapped. Cas is heading a war. That’s _asking_ for trouble.

But, Dean firmly reminds himself, that isn’t important right now. It doesn’t make a damn difference to anything, doesn’t matter, because right now, he’s out doing what he does best, and making his damn point while he does it.

He doesn’t need to be under house arrest. Cas doesn’t need to be worried about him every second of every day. He can _help_.

Now he just has to make that obvious.

And save Destiny Hernandez and Dane Johnson while he’s at it.

In the safety of his warded motel room, Dean makes an effort to do some digging into potential empty properties around the neighborhood where the victims went missing, wielding a laptop he may-or-may-not have used his wings to steal. After the first few hours of clicking turns up jack squat, though, it turns out to be a call to a local real estate branch that finally gets him the answers he needs.

There’s a derelict condo in the heart of the Dean’s suspected hunting ground, left empty and gutted for years, only to be purchased and left as-is about six months previously. The purchase date aligns almost perfectly with the date of the first odd death in the area.

Once he’s found this out—and made his proper excuses to the woman at the real estate office to end their call with the least amount of suspicion possible—the first thing he does is check his watch. It’s late in the day, he’s tired, and it’s very nearly sundown. None of those factors are ideal for vampire slaying.

But before he can even entertain the notion of waiting until morning to strike, he finds himself thinking of Celeste, and then he really can’t even pretend to care about the risks.

The sun is just dipping beneath the skyline by the time Dean reaches the condo. The building is in a run-down enough corner of the neighborhood that there’s no one around to see him pull a machete out of his trunk, and although he does get caught waiting with it tucked awkwardly against his leg while a group of college kids cross the road only a hundred or so yards away to ensure he doesn’t cause a scene, he’s advancing up the front stairs in no time at all. It may be the riskiest vamp nest location he’s ever encountered, but since that apparently doesn’t stop the vampires, Dean’s not going to let it stop him.

He finds the vampires themselves deep in the house, far past the point of any of the sun’s fading rays being able to light Dean’s way. The condo’s main living room has been converted into a communal bedroom, with sleeping bags, hammocks, and cots scattered all around, and at least one, sometimes two vampires are asleep in each designated place. Thanks to Dean’s enhanced vision, it’s easy to pick out each and every one of them. Nine in total.

He decapitates two before the others even begin to wake.

The third, the first of the bunch to rise and see their attacker, practically decapitates himself when he runs headlong at Dean, and right into the razor-sharp edge of his machete. The fourth is almost equally uncoordinated, though she, at least, manages to take a swing at Dean before a slash of his weapon has her head falling free from her body.

The trouble starts with vamp numbers five, six, and seven.

The three of them hit Dean within seconds of one another, snarling and spitting and swiping at him with unnaturally sharp fingernails that aren’t unlike claws, in terms of deadliness. Dean staggers backwards to avoid them all, but then nearly loses his footing as a result when the heel of his boot catches on a broken floorboard. The mistake earns him a torn shirtsleeve, and a three-fingered cut across his bicep. It stings like a bitch, and Dean hisses between clenched teeth.

“So it looks like the boy wonder can be hurt,” the lone vamp still situated in the back of the room drawls. _The sire_. Dean’s eyes flit to him in an instant, heedless of the group of monsters now circling around him. “He might not smell human, but you know what that means, my children?” Even in the dark room, the sire’s eyes glint with malice as he flicks his chin in Dean’s direction. “Grab him. He’ll make a good blood bag.”

His lackeys advance on Dean, obeying without question, but the answering growl that tears from Dean’s throat has them stalling in place. For a single moment, all of them are frozen, a tableau of would-be violence worthy of being the poster image for ‘Why To Never Hunt Alone’.

And then Dean snarls out, “Try me, you sons of bitches,” and the vampires do just that.

Dean takes a few punches in the ensuing skirmish, mostly to his jaw and shoulders, but he still holds his own well enough. He cuts the head off of another vampire and then manages to stick his machete through the center of another one before the weapon is finally torn away from him, gone with the vamp that he impaled on it. That one might not be as dead as Dean would prefer, but she’s still injured enough to no longer be an immediate threat, which is something Dean has to settle for being satisfied with.

Of course, losing his only weapon isn’t ideal. He doesn’t have any backup knives on him, hadn’t thought to bring the Colt—not that he would have anyways, what with its issue of limited ammunition. Without an effective way to fight back, there’s only so much he can do to keep the remaining vampires at bay, and it’s not long before ‘so much’ isn’t enough.

Unless…

It feels risky to try to take the chance to focus his thoughts in the middle of a battle he’s already losing, but Dean doesn’t see much of an alternative before him. He takes a breath, tries to center himself, draws on his grace while he twists his wrist—

He swears he feels a tingle of energy, but despite how badly he needs it to work, his palm remains stubbornly empty.

The disappointment of the failure makes Dean want to sob.

Dean may have the strength of an angel, but the vampires are strong in their own right, and without the saving grace of a new blade to fight back with, the numbers they have on him throw the odds far from his favor. Before he knows it, he finds himself pinned, a vampire on each side of him holding him in place by his arms, while another stands behind him, nails digging into the tops of his shoulders to keep him from fighting too hard against his restraints. He’s bleeding, he can taste blood in his mouth, and he’s aching in too many places from the points where the vampire’s fists struck him.

Cas is going to be so pissed at him.

Once Dean is still, the sire saunters forward, smirking like the smug son of a bitch he clearly is. When he comes to a stop, scarcely a few inches away from Dean, he leans in and makes an exaggerated show of breathing in his scent.

“Intoxicating,” is the assessment he comes away with. The word is exhaled against Dean’s skin in a way that makes him flinch, although he can’t recoil as much as he wants to, thanks to the tightening of his captors’ grips. The sire follows it up by ghosting his palm over Dean’s cheek. “Your heart beats, yet you smell like nothing I have ever encountered. How will you taste, I wonder? It seems as if there is someone out there who already knows the answer to that question, though, doesn’t it.”

Dean was already glaring at the vampire, but now that glare falters, just for a moment. What the hell is that even supposed to mean? He nearly asks, but before he can demand an explanation, he notices where the sire’s gaze is fixed, and his stomach plummets.

Figures, that a vampire would see his mating bite and call it evidence of having been _tasted_.

Nasty fucking bastards.

The sire’s hand makes a move like he’s going to touch the imprint of teeth on Dean’s neck, and it jars Dean’s attention back to his immediate surroundings. “Let me go,” he spits, his upper lip curled back while a warning growl begins to rumble in his chest, “or I’m going to make sure you regret it. You won’t be able to hold me for long, so either you let me go now and I kill you fast, or you draw this out, and I make sure it hurts.”

The sire doesn’t appear overly threatened by that, but his hand stops in place, so Dean figures his words had to have been worth _something_. The sire looks at him, a mask of cold amusement over his features as he studies his prey. A handful of seconds pass, then his lips tick up into the barest hint of a smile.

And then he smacks Dean across the face, hard. The vamps holding him in place laugh, while Dean grits his teeth to hold back a grunt of pain.

“I don’t care who or what you are,” the sire says, nearly singsong, “you walked into my nest, and now you are mine to do with as I please. It’s been too long since I’ve found a blood bag who smells as sweet as you. Don’t give me attitude, and perhaps I’ll make sure you last.”

“Fuck you.”

If anything, the sire’s smile only widens. “Maybe I’ll have to teach you some manners, hm?” As if on a silent cue, the vampire standing behind Dean fists a hand in his hair and yanks his head backwards, exposing his column of his throat. “I can beat it into you, you know,” the sire goes on to say, “and you know what? For killing so many of my children, I think I just might.”

What happens next almost transpires too quickly for Dean to comprehend. He gets it in bits and pieces, his awareness too fractured to allow him anything more.

The sire’s eyes flash with malice that’s reflected all the way down to the murky remains of his soul. His fingers curl into a fist, which he then drives toward Dean’s stomach.

Long before that fist can connect, there’s a pull in Dean’s gut, a flash of power through his body. His eyes light up gold in accordance, bright in the dark of the room.

The sire’s knuckles make contact with Dean’s body. Dean screams.

And then the room erupts into pure, golden light. The vampires’ grips fall away from him, and the sire’s punch never fully lands.

When the light fades, the vampires are nothing more than burned-out corpses on the floor.

Dean sways, then falls to his knees among them. His head is pounding, but all of the actual pain in his body is gone. It takes him a moment to force his vision to focus, but when he does, he can see that the cuts he previously took to his arm have been completely healed. Aside from the tear in his shirt and some smatterings of vampire blood, there’s no evidence on his body of the fight ever having happened.

He doesn’t know how long he kneels there, but it’s long enough for the exhaustion of his grace-soul to settle into his bones, and he’s left feeling dull. Tired of it all. He sucks in a breath, pushes to his feet, and then steps around the corpses on the floor to finally finish out his objective. As much as he wants to go home and collapse into bed, he still has two missing people to locate.

Instinct—or maybe senses Dean just doesn’t care to identify—leads him down a back staircase into the condo’s basement. In a surprising contrast to the rest of the rundown nest, the basement turns out to be clean and well-lit; for all that the vampires may have been blood-sucking, kidnapping asshats, they clearly knew what they were doing, because the operation downstairs is nothing short of professional. Clean tiles, industrial fridges with home-filled blood bags, stands for victims to be mounted on—

And Dane Johnson and Destiny Hernandez, propped up right in the middle of it all.

Dane is closest to the door, so Dean goes to him first. The boy’s pulse is weak, but definitely there, and Dean lets out a breath of relief. There’s an IV in his arm which Dean is careful in removing, but he doesn’t lift Dane off of the rack he’s situated on just yet. He wouldn’t have anywhere to put him, not while he still has to check on Destiny where she hangs opposite him.

As soon as Dean’s eyes land on Destiny, however, his stomach sinks.

Dane certainly doesn’t look healthy, but Destiny’s state is far worse. There’s an IV next to her just as there was with Dane, but it’s not connected, and that’s just one of the many ways Dean _knows_ , the realization settling heavily into the pit of his stomach.

She’s already cold to the touch when Dean makes the effort of checking for a pulse. It takes more strength than he would have thought he had left to clench his jaw and turn his back on the body. It hurts him to his core to have been too late to save Destiny, but so long as Dane’s heart continues to beat, Dean does, at least, still have an agenda to focus himself on. He has something to keep his feet moving, a reason to resist the urge to simply slump back to his motel and bury himself in blankets and pillows so he no longer has to think.

He’ll still do that, of course, just _after_ this mess has been cleaned up.

He flies Dane outside, and carefully lays him down on the sidewalk. He decides to leave Destiny as she is; she may deserve better, but there’s only so much more he can do with this situation, and there’s no way for him to change her fate. When he flits back into the house, he closes the basement’s access door to preserve her. So long as the local emergency responders are quick to get on the scene, the fire that he starts over the dead vampires in the living room shouldn’t have the opportunity to do more than disguise their inhuman nature and cause of death.

While the fire begins to rage, Dean checks on Dane one last time, calls 911, and waits until he hears sirens approaching before getting back into his car and peeling away. He trusts the police to get Dane the help that he needs, and update both the Johnsons and the Mark Hernandez on the situation. Typically, Dean might feel compelled to make some of those calls himself, but today, he just doesn’t have the heart.

No matter how much of a win it might be to return Mira Johnson’s son to her, he already knows he can’t face Mark. He can’t think about Celeste, now motherless, any more than he already is. And that’s why he runs.

The drive back to the motel passes in a blur, and it feels like no time at all before he’s walking through the door into his warded haven, then stripping down and stepping into the shower after that. The clothes he sheds in the process are covered in vampire bits and torn in more places than he first realized, so he doesn’t pay any mind to how they fall. All that matters is the hot, steady spray of water that drums against his skin and drowns out his thoughts.

His movements continue to be somewhat mechanical as he washes residue from the hunt from his skin, but as the shower’s heat works its way into his tense muscles, he slowly but surely begins to relax. Comes back to himself.

Unfortunately, the motel’s heating tank doesn’t give him more than fifteen minutes of hot water, so his reprieve is relatively short-lived. He reluctantly shuts off the water and towels himself dry, then goes to his bag for some fresh clothes he can curl into bed with. He dresses quickly, and when he fastens the button of his loosest, most comfortable pair of jeans, he resolutely tells himself that the new growth to his stomach is all in his head. Regardless, though, that isn’t something he dwells on for any longer than is strictly necessary. He pulls his pillow out of his bag, the case still stuffed with his collection of Cas’ feathers, and collapses onto the bed with his nose buried in it.

He misses Cas.

Maybe it’s not quite fair to do so, since leaving was his own choice, but he does. He doesn’t _regret_ leaving, despite everything, but it would certainly be a hell of a lot better if he could be out here hunting with his husband at his side. If Gabe weren’t such a stick in the mud, that _could_ be the case, too. And that’s what pisses him off about it the most.

Not that that’s Cas’ fault, though. Dean knows that. He might be pissed at the situation they’re all in, and pissed at Gabriel and even Michael and Raphael, but that doesn’t mean he needs to be taking it out so completely on Cas. Cas didn’t ask for this. He deserves better.

And no matter how hard Dean tries, no matter how thoroughly he tamps down on the mating bond in the back of his mind, he can’t stop his own longing. He’s glad that he had the forethought to bring his pillow along with him when he went rogue, but it’s not enough.

He’s grabbing his phone before he can talk himself out of it, tabbing his way through the menus until he finds himself staring at Cas’ contact. In the time since Dean got the phone for him, Cas hasn’t used it all that much—they can normally communicate without it, after all, if they’re ever even apart—but he’s confident that it’s burning a hole in the angel’s pocket wherever he may be, as the most trustworthy line of communication for new info on Dean’s whereabouts.

He could just open up the bond again, he knows. He could just go home. But no matter how much the case he worked is weighing on him, he’s still not ready for that, not yet. Still, he hesitates, nearly changes his mind, but when his next inhale provides him nothing but a lungful of his mate’s scent, his resolve crumbles and he presses his thumb into the green _call_ icon.

He can’t really say that he’s surprised when Cas answers on the first ring.

“Dean? Dean! Where are you? Are you okay? I haven’t been able to feel anything from you since you left, but earlier, I thought—Dean, you—”

Dean winces. “I’m fine, Cas. Nothing to panic about.” Figures, that Cas would be able to feel the panic that had washed over him when the vampire tried to punch him. Tried to endanger their _kid_. Fuck. “Just had a slight miscalculation, is all.”

“A _slight miscalculation_?” Cas repeats incredulously, and Dean can practically _hear_ the way his husband’s eyebrows shoot toward his hairline. “What I sensed from you was not the result of a slight miscalculation, Dean. That was terror in its purest form. Don’t lie to me.”

Dean was prepared to start trying to diffuse the situation and assuage Cas’ fears, but once Cas comes back at him with an attitude, Dean’s own approach shifts to match. This is exactly the kind of thing he left to avoid, he’s not going to put up with it now.

“I’m not _lying_ ,” he snaps, “I messed up, and that’s what it comes down to. There was more of ‘em than I was expecting, and shit got dicey for a minute, but I handled it, and that’s what matters.”

“You’re hunting.”

Dean scoffs. “No, I took a break from you assholes to go on a cross-country daisy-picking expedition. _Yeah_ , I’m hunting.”

“You’re putting yourself in danger,” Cas replies hotly. “Not only could something happen to you on a hunt, but we already know that Raphael has an agenda against us, as well. If the issue is not something going wrong on a hunt, then it could be Raphael’s attention being drawn, or even Michael’s—”

“I’m not going to draw anyone’s attention, Cas, I’m not a child, I know what I’m doing—”

“You say that, and yet you admit that you messed up earlier today, so it seems more than possible to me—”

“God damnit, Cas, I called you because I missed you, and all you’re doing is proving that I made the right choice by leaving!”

There’s silence on the other end of the line. When it doesn’t pass, Dean sighs heavily, and raises his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Cas, I just… I’m sorry, okay? I am. But I’m not made of glass, and I can’t stay cooped up in Bobby’s house any longer. I won’t.”

Cas’ answering sigh crackles over the speaker at Dean’s ear. Instead of engaging with Dean’s complaint, however, he breaks his silence to ask, “What is it that you were hunting?”

Dean scrunches his eyes closed. “Vamp nest. Ugly case overall. I handled it.”

“Ugly?” Cas presses. “How was it ugly?”

“Just—the victims, the latest grabs.” How does he keep coming back to this, the one subject he specifically wanted to avoid? It makes him antsy, and leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. “They were innocent people who deserved better. Only one of them made it out.”

Cas makes a quiet sound of understanding, which at least does _something_ to soothe Dean’s lingering guilt. It helps him to feel like he’s not being irrational about it, at any rate. Cas furthers that by saying carefully, “I’m sure you did everything in your power to help them, love.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Do you have another hunt lined up now that this one is completed?” Cas asks next, and Dean already knows where the angel is taking his argument.

Still, he gives his mate an honest answer. “No, not yet. I jumped on the first hunt I found, and haven’t looked at anything else since. I’m sure that there’s more for me to do, though, there always is.”

“Or…” Cas audibly wets his lips. “Or you could come home. Everyone is worried sick about you. Sam hasn’t been sleeping, Bobby hasn’t stopped trying to locate you, and has even gone so far as to recruit other hunters to keep an eye out for you. And I—” He hesitates, momentarily choked-up. “I miss you too, of course. More than anyone.”  

Dean swallows thickly. “Cas, babe… I know. But I can’t come back yet. I’m making a _point_ here, and coming back home so soon isn’t going to help that point. I’m going to stay out here, and I’m going to keep hunting and killing monsters until everyone gets it through their thick skulls that I’m still _me_ , you got that? I’m not going to let you and Gabe boss me around—”

“Dean, I think this is something we should discuss—”

There’s a retort ready on the tip of Dean’s tongue, but before he can make it, there’s a loud _pop_ on the opposite side of the room, like the firing of a cork gun, only amplified to an ear-splitting volume. It makes Dean startle so hard that he nearly drops his phone, and in his ensuing flailing, it takes him far too long to notice the bright, white light that shines out from around the closet door. By the time he does, the door is rattling on his hinges, on the brink of shaking apart.

“What’s that sound? What’s happening? Dean, what is it?”

“Cas, I gotta go.”

“Dean, no, wait—!”

Dean snaps his phone shut and drops it to the bed, and swiftly exchanges it for the Colt, hastily dug out of its hiding place in his duffle. Despite the uncertainty of the situation, a cold focus grips him, and he holds steady as he waits for the closet hoodoo to end. If something comes out of it, he’s ready to shoot; if something doesn’t, then that may just actually be worse, and he’s going to be damn sure he gets the hell out of Dodge as soon as is physically possible.

He’s spared from having to think about that latter possibility too much however, because mere seconds later, the closet’s door blows open, and a man falls through it.

Dean stops short. His senses flare outward, taking in everything he can about the stranger who just _fell out of his closet_ , but from what he can detect, the man is nothing but human. More than that, though, something about him seems… familiar? Dean can’t for the life of him figure out why, but even just looking at the man, he can see the silvery shine of his soul. He almost-but-not-quite recognizes it, and is instinctually reminded of… He isn’t quite sure what.

His hackles are still raised, obviously, because he can’t even begin to explain where this guy came from, but even just the fact that he’s human makes it hard for Dean to be _too_ concerned. He can hold his own against a human.

But of course, lack of heart-stopping panic or not, Dean can’t just let the stranger _be here_.

He pulls back the hammer on the Colt and aims it loosely at the stranger’s feet. “Try something and I’ll end you.”

Until now, the man has clearly been too disoriented to be doing much of anything. Once Dean speaks, however, the man jolts, and whips to face him. He raises his hands in defense when he sees the gun, though he sways like he might fall over. His eyes are wild, frantic, and when he does a quick search of the room and finds it devoid of anyone but Dean, he gulps.

“Please. I—John. I’m looking for John Winchester. Are you John?”

The gun nearly slips from Dean’s fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> M P R E G 
> 
> Bit more this chapter, but hopefully nothing that verges on a squick? Here's the basics of what to expect: 
> 
> \- Brief mention of a potential name for the baby, making it clear it's on Dean's mind  
> \- Subtle reflection on Dean's pregnancy through a parallel of a victim who left a kid behind  
> \- Dean is nearly hurt, and his instincts kick into overdrive to ensure he protects the baby  
> \- VERY brief mention of the possibility that Dean is starting to show


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the bed, his phone buzzes incessantly. He ignores it completely, just as he does the guilt that threatens to well up in his chest as a result. He knows the end of his conversation with Cas was far from ideal, and his mate is sure to be terrified. Dean loosens his hold on their bond just enough to send a pulse of reassurance through, then wrings it back closed before Cas can have the chance to worm his way through the gap. 
> 
> The phone stops ringing. Dean counts it as a win, and redirects his focus back to where it’s needed most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup, my dudes! 
> 
> Sorry for not being quick to upload lately, but I made this mistake where I took Too Many(TM) classes this quarter and I am d y i n g . And I also just?? Bite off way more than I can chew with fics? Why am I like this. Good god. 
> 
> Speaking of fics: like ABOs and royalty aus? Check out [Peace-Weaver](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13334760/chapters/30525384)! Part 1/2 is up, with the second hopefully coming once I've solidified my pinefest fic. King!alpha!Cas, prince!omega!Dean, some reversed tropes--it may be one of my favorite things I've ever written, to be quite honest. 
> 
> But anyways. Update! Not incredibly long today, because I needed a breaking point _somewhere_ , but it's definitely a good, pivotal point in the plot that I'm really excited to have finally reached. We're building up to some great things.
> 
> Enjoy, friends. <3

Dean has seen some weird things in his life. He’s been around for the better part of thirty years, and been hunting or exposed to hunting for the majority of that—he’s seen more than most people could ever want to.

And yet, having a guy fall out of his closet, looking for his _father_ of all people, is the most bizarre thing he’s ever experienced.

And what a statement that is.

God, why couldn’t he just be allowed to _sleep_? He’s been going for too long for this shit, can already feel that it’s adrenaline more than anything else keeping him on his feet at this point.

Once he’s managed to get his shock at the man’s sudden appearance (and mention of John, because what the _fuck_ ) under wraps, Dean flexes his fingers in the Colt’s grip and levels it at the intruder’s chest. Dean has a sneaking suspicion that he’s already out of his depth with this one, and he has no idea where to even begin with this guy—is he a threat to Dean? To his kid? Is this some backhanded plot by Raphael to get at Gabe or Cas?

Admittedly, Dean doesn’t have a damn clue how this random human could fit along with any of that, but he’ll be damned before he disregards his paranoia and shoots himself in the foot as a result.

On the bed, his phone buzzes incessantly. He ignores it completely, just as he does the guilt that threatens to well up in his chest as a result. He knows the end of his conversation with Cas was far from ideal, and his mate is sure to be terrified. Dean loosens his hold on their bond just enough to send a pulse of reassurance through, then wrings it back closed before Cas can have the chance to worm his way through the gap.

The phone stops ringing. Dean counts it as a win, and redirects his focus back to where it’s needed most.

His gun is still pointed directly at the stranger’s heart, and the guy eyes it with wide, frantic eyes. He doesn’t move, which is a positive, and he doesn’t look like he’s ready to start a fight, which is even better. Dean takes a moment to assess him, sizing up his opponent.  

The man’s clothes are clean, but ruffled and untucked, giving the impression that he had been running. Other than that, though, he almost seems _too_ prim and proper; his hair is (had been) perfectly combed, and his suit looks expensive, even if it’s somewhat out of style. Because, really, who wears a suit in _that_ shade of blue?

Not that any of that helps Dean to determine _who he could possibly be_. Mildly attractive man in an ugly suit who runs a lot. It doesn’t exactly narrow anything down.

“How the hell do you know John Winchester?” he demands of the man, gesturing with his gun to encourage an answer. It’s the most important question in his mind, the degree to which it itches at him more than enough to justify it being his first question. “And how’d you get here, where did you come from?”

Although the gun pointed at him is clearly enough to keep the man rooted in place, he narrows his eyes at Dean, looking distinctly unimpressed. “I must speak to John Winchester,” he says, urgent, despite how irritated he is. “He must be nearby—let me speak to him. Time is of the essence.”

Dean scowls at him. “You just fell out of my closet, pal, I don’t think you’re really in a place to be making demands. Now answer my questions before I decide I don’t care anymore and pull this trigger.”

“There is no need for violence,” the man replies, now managing to sound petulant. He eyes the gun once more, then raises his gaze to Dean’s, visibly squaring himself up. “I came from Normal, Illinois, 1958. I know this may be difficult to comprehend, but I came to be here through the means of magic—”

Dean cuts him off with a scoff. He’s suddenly glad for his husband’s tendency to get off on tangents about physics, and the limits of angel grace. “Even angels struggle with time travel, and you expect me to believe that you Back to the Futured your way here with nothing more than an ‘abra cadabra’? Nice try.”

That earns Dean a rapid series of blinks. “Angels do not interact with humans. How could you know such a thing?”

Despite himself, Dean has to feel a bit smug about that. If this random guy is going to be a jackass to Dean, Dean will be a jackass right back. He flashes the stranger a tight smile. “That’s probably something that’s too difficult for you to comprehend.”

The guy bristles, but doesn’t rise to the bait. “I came to be here through magic, as I told you. Powerful magic, but clean, and magic nonetheless.”

Dean still isn’t entirely convinced, but elects to let it slide. This guy doesn’t look like he’s going to change his answer any time soon, so Dean won’t waste his time on it. Especially not when it’s not the explanation he wants most to begin with.

“And you know John how?”

“Where is he?” the man asks again, clearly clinging to this subject that he has an upper-hand in to overcome his moment of confusion over Dean’s _angel_ remark. He’s starting to sound like a broken record by this point, though, which only serves to make everything so much worse. “I would rather speak to him directly, it will be easier to explain. He will understand. Take me to him.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen.”

The man’s expression hardens. If the situation were better, Dean might have laughed at how easy it is to make his emotions swing. “And why not?”

Dean’s lips press thin, a familiar sourness in his stomach even just from the thought of it. Definitely _not_ a laughing situation. “Because he’s dead.”

The man’s breath catches audibly. A beat passes, and then, “He can’t be—”

“Dead.” Dean is far from eager to go through this; he figures that interrupting will save them time, make things easier. “Might want to check your info, buddy, because it’s out of date.”

It takes a few more moments for the man to accept the truth of Dean’s words, but it’s incredibly obvious the moment it happens. The fight drains from his shoulders all at once, his jaw going slack, and his eyes distant. It sends warning flags up in Dean’s mind, because it’s not at all the kind of reaction he ever would have expected, and his guard drops ever so slightly. The Colt drifts, lowering from its previously-rigid target.

Dean raises his chin, the only challenge he can muster. “What’s it to you?”

“Everything,” is the reply he gets. Then, eyes raising back to Dean’s own, “I’m his father.”

And just like that, Dean feels lightheaded. It has to be a lie, there’s no _way_ —

“Bullshit,” he grits out. He’s no longer even pretending to be threatening this guy, his gun loose in his fingers. “That’s not possible.”

John never talked about his parents much, but when he did, Dean was most likely to hear a kind word or two about his grandmother. There was never a good thing to be said about his grandfather. That was one of the first lessons Dean remembers learning in life, right alongside, ‘don’t ask about Mom’.

Given that, there’s no way in hell that this young, normal-looking guy is John’s dad.

His maybe-grandfather looks no less dazed in the face of Dean’s disbelief, however, giving Dean the sinking impression that the emotion is genuine.

“Blood leads to blood,” he mutters, completely nonsensically. It’s not at all an explanation, but he’s staring at Dean now, scrutinizing him intensely.

Before Dean can demand more answers, the closet begins to rattle on its hinges once more. The sound makes him startle, and he jerks his gun back up on instinct. He’d been too occupied with the man claiming to be Henry Winchester to notice sooner, but the blinding white light is back as well, glaring out from around the wood.

“No,” Maybe-Henry breathes. He falls back a few steps, moving closer to Dean. “No, that shouldn’t be possible—”

Once he’s in-reach, Dean grabs Maybe-Henry by the shoulder and yanks the man around to face him. He has to shout to be heard over the sound of the rattling door. “Tell me that’s a friend of yours.”

The man’s eyes are wide, filled with unmistakable fear. “We need to leave. Right now.”

Dean gulps. He may not know this man, may not trust who he says he is, but the kind of terror he sees right now is a language he speaks. If their lives are going to depend on it, Dean can take a chance.

He takes a second to grab his duffle, and then the closet door blows off of its hinges.

Dean stumbles backwards, only barely missing getting hit by splinters of exploded wood. Maybe-Henry backs toward the door, trying for an escape even while his eyes seem to be stuck on the figure which has emerged from the closet.

The woman is tall, curvy, drop-dead gorgeous. Even while it’s done-up, her hair looks like living fire, an effect which isn’t diminished even by her Stepford Wife attire. There’s blood flecked across her cheek, blood on the front of her dress, and blood staining the entirety of her right hand.

Dean fully understands the fear in Henry’s eyes.

“Henry, dear,” the woman purrs, flashing the man a beatific smile, “you forgot to lock the door behind you.”

When her eyes flick to black, Dean isn’t surprised—he can see the pit where her soul should be, can smell the sulfur coming off of her in droves—but Henry recoils visibly. “You’re not going to get it,” he tells her, but the demon’s smile only widens.

“Won’t I?”

She takes a step forward, and that right there is enough for Dean. He fires a round into the demon’s chest, and breathes a sigh of relief when the Colt’s power sparks through her, lighting her up from the inside out.

She staggers on her feet, but then the light show stops, and her body has yet to hit the floor. Black eyes flit to Dean’s. “ _Ow_.”

Dean’s stomach drops. It can’t be possible. It doesn’t make sense, it goes against everything he _knows_.

And yet.

His fingers feel numb as he reaches out to push Henry—even if he’s not _the_ Henry, that is what the demon called him—toward the door, panic gripping him. Thankfully, the other man gets the hint, and the two of them scramble their way out of the motel room before the demon can fully recover, Dean diverting only long enough to snatch up his bag and his pillow. The Impala is only in the second row of parking out; Dean sprints toward it, shouting for Henry to follow, and by the time they’re diving in and Dean has fumbled the key into the ignition, the demon is back, glaring them down from the motel room door.

Dean peels out of the stall. He doesn’t even wince when the Impala’s tires protest the rough treatment, and if that isn’t a testament to how genuine his horror is, he doesn’t know what is.

They hit the road going double the speed limit, lit by the rising sun. As they hurtle their way out of town, Dean casts a quick look over at his passenger, who’s braced between the roof and the door like he’s convinced he’s going to become roadkill at any minute.

With the way Dean’s dodging between other drivers and earning angry honks from the majority of them, he can’t say that concern is misplaced.

His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. The traffic is thinning out the further they get from town, at least. “What the hell was that thing?”

Henry blows out a rough breath. “A demon.”

Dean bares his teeth, a growl of frustration building in the back of his throat. No _shit_ it was a demon. “That bullet should have killed her,” he says. “It’s killed other demons, it killed—” It killed Azazel. It killed John. It nearly killed Dean himself. The steering wheel creaks, and Dean has to force himself to loosen his grip.

“She ain’t a normal demon, so you better start talking, before I toss you out onto the side of the road and let her eat you for dinner.”

He sees Henry go stiff from the corner of his eye. A _you wouldn’t_ hangs in the air, but just when Dean is sure it’s going to be voiced, he gets an agitated sigh instead.

“Abaddon,” Henry relents. “She’s called Abaddon. She is a Knight of Hell. Hand-picked by Lucifer in the Beginning, and trained by Cain, the first of their Order.”

Dean doesn’t know what half of that is supposed to mean, but the words send a trickle of fear down his spine nonetheless. Lucifer, Cain—Azazel’s attempted war was one thing, a fight with the archangels another entirely, but those two names? Those are out of Dean’s paygrade.

He’s still considering that when Henry announces, voice straining, “We have a problem.”

“Oh, son of a—” Dean wrenches the rearview mirror into a new angle, and swears when he sees what Henry means. The demon, now a cloud of thick, black smoke, is hurtling itself after them at a breakneck pace, closing in on them faster than Dean can speed down the highway. It stays close to the ground, and sends every other car it passes flipping off of the road.

“Fuck fuck _fuck_.”

Dean jerks the steering wheel and throws them off of the main road, but regrets the decision instantly. They lose too much speed, transferring onto the unpaved service road, and Abaddon corrects her course with ease. The only thing they have to gain is that she’s at least no longer bowling over civilians.

Even if their own chances of escape are quickly dwindling.

“I hope you have a plan,” Henry grits out, and Dean definitely doesn’t, but it’s easy to act on instinct.

He throws the bond in his mind open wide and shouts, half-praying the name, “ _Castiel_!”

The angel is there immediately. The familiar beating of his wings eases the fear clawing at Dean’s throat, and between heartbeat and the next, they’re flying.

The last thing Dean sees is Abaddon retaking her human form in the middle of the dirt path behind them, almost near enough to touch them. She’s still covered in blood, and looks like something straight out of a nightmare. Even from a distance, her black eyes seem to lock directly onto Dean’s.

And then they’re in Sioux Falls, skidding to a halt in front of Bobby’s garage.

As soon as the car is off, Henry fumbles his door open and collapses to the dirt, heaving up the contents of his stomach. Dean is glad to not have to stoop that low, even if his hands are shaking as he climbs out of the driver’s seat. There’s a terrible mix of fear and adrenaline only beginning to fade from his bloodstream, and it’s a miracle that their abrupt flight didn’t turn his stomach and leave him hurling like it did for Henry.

Cas is there the moment Dean is on his feet. Dean knows that they’re supposed to be fighting, knows that that’s bound to come back around at some point or another, but for the moment, his pride isn’t his top priority. He grabs Cas by the lapels of his coat and hauls him into a tight hug.

It immediately feels right.

There’s a brief second where Cas tenses, but then he’s hugging Dean right back with a crushing intensity. The link between their minds is like a livewire, fraught with emotions that Dean isn’t eager to touch, but despite that, Cas still makes an effort to push reassurance onto Dean, and does so until the tension has gone from his shoulders. Dean tucks his nose into the crook of his husband’s neck and breathes him in, and for a few moments, the weight of the world falls away.

Then Henry regains his footing and stumbles his way around the front of the Impala, interrupting the moment to ask, “What on earth just happened? How did we get here?”

Cas whips around Dean in an instant, placing himself directly between his mate and the perceived stranger. He doesn’t quite drop into a defensive crouch, but it’s a near thing, and the blade that has materialized in his hand is still more than enough to have Henry going rigid.

“Whoa whoa, Cas, hey!” Dean pulls at him, and although he has to fight past a restrictive arm to do so, he manages to get in front of the angel. “Don’t hurt him, he’s a friendly.”

Cas squints at him, then at Henry, then back again. “You know this man?”

Dean blows out a long breath. “He sort of… fell out of my closet.” At Cas’ answering frown, he rushes to explain, “That thing that was chasing us? It was after him. And he says he’s from the ‘fifties. Can you tell me if that’s true or not?”

Cas’ squinting continues in full force, and god, Dean loves him. Cas turns his stare on Henry, then, after the span of a few heartbeats, his eyes go wide. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

“But it is?” Dean pushes. He glances over his shoulder at the man in question. “And is he really—”

“Your grandfather,” Cas finishes for him. The tone of his voice makes it clear that that fact baffles him even more than the potential of time travel. Dean can’t say he blames him.

Henry makes an odd noise, and his gaze slides to Dean from Cas as he echoes faintly, “ _Grandfather_.”

Dean steels himself—he trusts Cas absolutely on his assessment, but that doesn’t make this conversation any more fun—then leaves the safety that Cas’ proximity offers and goes toward Henry, a hand extended in belated greeting. “Now that I know you’re legit and we’re also not about to be murdered, I guess we should do this properly. Dean Winchester. John’s son. Nice to meet you, I guess.”

Henry eyes his hand, then tentatively takes it. “It’s good to meet you, Dean,” he says, incredibly earnestly. “I suppose I am… your grandfather, as your friend said.”

Dean winces at the word _friend_ at the same time that his bond with Cas tightens. Henry can’t possibly know the extent of his relationship with Cas, but it’s still the kind of mislabeling that smarts. It’s certainly not giving Henry a great first impression, either.

Not that Cas is bound to like him after endangering Dean with a Knight of Hell, but, well. There’s not much to be done about that.

Henry continues, oblivious to the reaction he incurred, “How did we get to this place?” He glances around what he can see of Bobby’s property, and his nose wrinkles with something like disdain, like it’s not up to the standards he’s accustomed to. “What magic was that, whose name did you invoke?”

“It was not magic,” Cas tells him, stepping forward before Dean has the chance to figure out an answer in his own right. He places a protective hand on Dean’s back. “Dean called to me, and I flew you here. I am an angel of the Lord, and Dean’s mate and husband besides.”

For a second, it looks like Henry is about to refute some part of Cas’ statement, but then he visibly short-circuits. He blinks rapidly, gaze flitting between Dean and Cas until finally, eventually, he breaks out into a wide grin. The couple has just enough time to exchange a confused look before Henry says, “Oh, the Old Boys must hate that.”

Dean and Cas frown in stereo. “Who?”

Henry’s grin falters. “The Old Boys. Do the younger members call them something different these days? Your superiors.”

“What superiors? The hell are you talking about?”

“What level are you?”

“ _Level_?”

“Yes, your level.” Henry huffs, and his lips press into a thin line. “You’re a Man of Letters as your father was, are you not?”

Dean blinks. “I’m a _hunter_ like Dad was.”

There’s something about that that Henry doesn’t seem to like, but before he can respond, the front door of Bobby’s house slams open. The three of them turn to see Sam come storming out, charging toward them.

“Sam—”

“Dean, you dumb son of a bitch—” He cuts off when he reaches them, and catches Dean in a bruising hug. Dean grumbles about it under his breath, but he’s not so heartless as to resist hugging back.

He knows he stressed everyone out. It’s the least he can do.

When Sam pulls back, Dean is sure he’s going to be bitched at, but instead, his brother’s eyes catch on Henry, and he visibly stalls. “Who’s this guy?”

Henry straightens himself up. “I’m—”

“Someone I can introduce inside,” Dean is quick to cut in. Everything about this is going to be a pain in the ass, and he’d rather have Bobby and Jess present so that he can tell them what happened _once_. There’s a hell of a lot to talk about. Dean sidesteps Sam and Cas and starts inside, leading by example.

He hopes to god someone has already made a pot of coffee. Judging by the ache between his temples, he suspects he might need a lot of it to get through this.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean reaches into the cabinet to grab himself a coffee mug, but as soon as it’s in his fingers, his grip falters. The ceramic mug clatters against the countertop, then falls from there onto the floor, where it smashes to pieces. 
> 
> And just like that, the kitchen is silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy, friends! Long time no see!   
> ~~(jesus fuck has it really been seven months)~~
> 
> Not only has real life been a bitch during these last several months, but I've also written some other great projects that I'm really happy with. Such as! [Genie in a Bottle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14128077), a story feat. genie!Cas and historian!Dean, [Peace-Weaver](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13334760), a medieval fic with non-traditional ABO tropes, and a few other smaller projects. Go check them out if you haven't already? They're good words, I promise, and should hopefully make up for my lack of FEH. 0_0
> 
> And speaking of! Starting now, this fic is now my number one main project again, so if all goes well, there shouldn't be any atrocious breaks between updates again for a while. I'm still going to be juggling some other projects I'm eager to write, but it won't be seven months again. I promise. 
> 
> So, without further ado... Enjoy. (I'm sorry for the wait. I love you all.) <3 
> 
> (note for mpreg at the end)

Dean is really starting to get sick of being the center of attention.

But, well. He _is_ earning it, on a fairly regular basis. Unfortunately.

Bobby and Jess ambush him as soon as he walks through the front door, and welcome him home in much the same way that Sam had—meaning, with hugs followed by firm scoldings for running off—but once that is settled, there is no way to avoid the interrogation due to follow. He’s only been gone for a couple days, but in that short amount of time, he’s given his family plenty to question.

Where did he go? Why did he leave? Why didn’t he answer any of their calls? What happened while he was away? Why did he suddenly reappear? What emergency made him call Cas for an airlift home?

And, of course: who’s the stranger who came home with him?

Dean has a sinking feeling that Cas will have even more questions than that, but with any luck, he’ll be able to avoid the inevitable confrontation with his husband for at least a little while longer.

As soon as he’s in the kitchen, Dean goes for the coffee machine, seeking both headache relief and an excuse for something to occupy his hands. Cas follows right on his heels, and on the other side of the kitchen, Sam and Bobby whisper back and forth; Henry doesn’t stop staring at Dean, frowning at him like there’s some puzzle within him needing to be unraveled, while Jess squints unrelentingly at Henry.

Dean reaches into the cabinet to grab himself a coffee mug, but as soon as it’s in his fingers, his grip falters. The ceramic mug clatters against the countertop, then falls from there onto the floor, where it smashes to pieces.

And just like that, the kitchen is silent.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Dean swears under his breath. He clenches his hands into fists to stop the tremble which has returned to them, then turns around and leans back against the counter, arms folding tightly across his chest. Unsurprisingly, everyone is staring at him; he glares them down, and elects to ignore the broken ceramic at his feet.

If he’s already this shaky, it’s probably best he doesn’t try to add coffee to the mix, anyway.

Cas copies his position against the counter, leaving mere inches between them, and vanishes the broken mug away with a flick of his wrist. Dean sends a quick pulse of thanks across their bond.

“When was the last time you slept, son?” Bobby asks, squinting out from under the bill of his cap. It’s the kind of stare that sees far too much for Dean’s liking.

He grits his teeth and shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Let’s just get this over with, alright? This isn’t about me right now.”

At his side, Cas lets out a low growl, making it clear that he has some issues with that claim. Thankfully, though, Bobby speaks again before the angel can start that fight.

“Right. So you planning on introducing us to your new friend, then?”

Henry straightens himself up, tugging at his coat and reaching to tighten the knot of his tie. When he’s done, he takes a step toward Bobby and extends a hand. “Henry Winchester, Man of Letters.”

Once again, the kitchen is silent. Bobby stares at Henry’s outstretched hand, then at the man himself, then finally looks to Dean, his eyebrows raised.

“Henry Winchester. As in…”

“Dad’s dad?” Sam finishes. “But how is that possible?”

Henry’s hand drops back to his side. “You are also one of John’s children?” he asks. Then, after a beat, “Were you initiated in your brother’s stead?”

Sam blinks. “I, uh…”

“Henry, this is my little brother, Sam,” Dean interrupts. They need to get through this as quickly as possible so that he can go hide himself away and, hopefully, take a much-needed nap; he doesn’t have the patience for conversation points he doesn’t understand. “And this is his girlfriend Jess, and our family friend, Bobby Singer. This is his house.”

Henry gives Sam a curious look, but nods to the group as a whole. “Nice to meet you all.” He glances back toward Dean, then. “Are we safe here?”

“We’ve got wards everywhere, we’ll be fine,” Dean answers, at the same time that Jess asks, sounding mildly alarmed, “Safe from what?”

Cas shifts his weight, turning toward Dean just enough to convey that he also has that question. They may have already had their reunion (in the basic sense, because their bond is still tense enough for Dean to know he isn’t out of the woods just yet), but Cas is just as in-the-dark as the rest of them.

Which means that Dean has no option but to recount the events of the last few hours.

For the most part, he keeps his details vague and to-the-point. He tells them that he was in a motel in Columbus—but not why—and describes everything which had led to Henry’s arrival and taken place immediately after. The loud noise, glowing in the closet, dude in a weird suit—and then a demon chick covered in blood who chased them down the highway at a breakneck pace, until Dean had had no choice but to call Cas for an escape.

He very nearly adds that he swears the demon had _looked_ at him in the split second before Cas flew them out, but the detail withers on his tongue. Probably best not to share it, anyway; it would only cause unnecessary worry.

Although, judging by the mixed looks of concern he’s already receiving, it probably wouldn’t have made much of a difference.

After Dean has told the story from his own perspective, Henry steps in to do the same without prompting. Bobby, Sam, and Jess all have questions as to how and why a Knight of Hell is chasing Henry through time, and Henry provides the best answers he can. Dean only listens with half an ear, but he does still recognize that it’s good information to be gaining.

As Henry tells it, Abaddon had been lurking in the shadows for centuries, until his organization and a few of their allies put themselves on Hell’s hitlist by experimenting on demons. When she attacked, she did so violently, tearing through Henry’s coworkers and stopping at nothing to get what she wanted.

While the conversation drags onward, Dean slowly begins to back his way out of the room. It’s not that he isn’t interested in what Henry has to say—there’s a lot to the man, so much so that they could probably spend the next several hours unpacking it all and still be nowhere near finished—but he also knows how this goes. He knows that even if he misses the actual debriefing, someone will catch him up eventually, and when that happens, it will all be a wash.

And since it’s not going to matter anyway, why the hell should he bother to stick around? If it were up to him, he would still be running away from his problems anyway, just in a different state. No use changing his behavior now.

Plus, he still _really_ needs that nap. He hasn’t had a real chance to catch his breath since long before he took out that vampire nest, and god knows how _that_ went. He needs a chance to recuperate more than he needs to hear more about their latest problem-of-the-week.

Luckily, no one seems to notice his exit when he makes it, because there’s no effort made to stop him. Once he’s out of sight of the kitchen, he materializes his wings and flies himself upstairs. Being in the safety of his room is immediately relieving, and some of the tension in his shoulders begins to bleed away, his wings drooping with it.

He’s only alone for a handful of seconds before Cas appears in front of him.

Dean, unsure of what he’s going to be getting from his husband right now, doesn’t acknowledge him. He steps around Cas in the small space of their shared room, and though he’s too weak to resist dragging his feathers along Cas’ in an affectionate gesture, he drops himself onto their bed without saying a word.

Cas, for his part, sighs at the touch of their wings. It takes a few moments for him to turn after Dean has passed him, but when he does, he sits on the edge of the mattress beside Dean’s hip, his hands folded in his lap. “You didn’t want to hear what your grandfather has to say?”

Dean shoves a hand between his head and his pillow and stares blankly up at the ceiling. “The rest of them can handle it. I’ll hear it later.”

“Dean.” Cas lays a palm over Dean’s sternum; the touch is heavy, grounding. “This man’s arrival, a Knight of Hell—none of this should be taken lightly. I know that there is a lot going on right now—”

Dean snorts. _Understatement_.

Across their bond, Cas radiates a distinct _lack_ of amusement. He restarts, “There is a lot going on right now, but that is exactly why we are going to have to be careful. If we focus too much on this new threat, we risk letting Raphael get away with too much. Yet if we focus on Raphael and let this Knight go ignored… She is the last of her kind. There is no telling what she could do if she were to rally Hell to her side.”

It’s easy to see where the predicament comes in. Dean sees it just as well as Cas does. Two separate enemies, two separate ways they can royally fuck themselves—and just like that, they’re trapped between Heaven and Hell, with hardly any space to breathe in the middle.

He turns it over in his mind for a few more moments, then asks, “Where does a Knight of Hell rank? And how do you know that this one is the last?”

“The Knights,” Cas starts to say, only to immediately interrupt himself with a sigh. He flexes his fingers where they continue to rest on Dean’s chest, then moves his palm a few inches so that it’s directly over Dean’s heart. “Back when Lucifer first made his rebellion, he was desperate to do everything he could to spite our Father. He wanted to corrupt our Father’s most cherished creation. Lilith was the first, then the Princes, which was the class Azazel belonged to. Lilith was the most powerful demon to ever be created, a result of Lucifer’s original fury and anguish. The Princes were strong, but Lucifer lacked the same conviction when he made them. They were not equals with Lilith.”

There is a lot to this backstory that Dean can’t even begin to wrap his mind around (Lucifer, Lilith—it’s a lot more biblical than he’s used to, which is saying something, considered he’s married to an angel), but the general image which is beginning to take shape isn’t one that he likes.

Gabe once told them that Azazel’s power level was on-par with Cas’. So if Azazel’s tier of demon _lacked conviction_ …

Dean swallows hard. “And the Knights?”

“The Knights,” Cas says again. “The first was Cain, goaded into killing Abel. Two of Heaven’s favorites, destroyed. No one knows exactly what it was that Lucifer did to him, but Cain became so violent and bloodthirsty that even Heaven feared him. He was the first Knight, and the strongest. With Lucifer’s oversight, he grew the order, and trained every additional Knight to be just as he was. And then he slaughtered them all.”

Dean quickly pushes himself to sit upright (and mentally thanks his angel powers for not letting him get dizzy as a result). He stares at Cas, disbelieving. “ _Cain_ killed them? Why would he do that?”

Cas’ lips press into a thin line. “We don’t know. Learning the full story would mean speaking to Cain directly, and no one is stupid enough to attempt such a thing. All we know is that the entire order was slaughtered. Abaddon is the only one who has been seen since then, although she stays quiet enough that she has always been difficult to track with any sort of accuracy.”

He huffs, then, and the corners of his eyes crinkle with the first real amusement Dean has seen out of him in… fuck, he doesn’t even know how long. _Too_ long.

“I really should have known that _you_ would be the one to do the impossible. With the way your luck seems to go, it’s rather fitting. One of the most notorious Knights of Hell to ever walk the Earth, and she shows up in _your_ motel room. It’s almost impressive, really.”

Dean flashes him a wry smile. “It’s a gift.”

Cas hums in agreement. They sit like that for another moment, leaning toward each other and with Cas’ hand still pressing over Dean’s heart. The longer they sit in silence, though, the more the lingering good-will in the air fades away. Tension returns to their bond, tinged with uncertainty, and Dean finds himself wincing even before Cas actually voices the question on his mind.

“Dean… Why did you leave?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He _knows_ why, still feels the hot prickle of rage in his chest when he thinks back to the accusations Gabriel sent his way, is still sour with guilt over the mess with Michael and Raphael. He’s still struggling to figure out how to cope with his new stress of being a parent-to-be. Objectively, he knows his own emotions.

But how the hell is he supposed to put it all into clean-cut words for Cas to understand?

He can’t, is the answer. So instead of trying, he bundles up all of the pressure that is building behind his sternum and shoves it across their bond. It’s met with a brief pulse of surprise—Cas always seems surprised when Dean utilizes their bond in such a useful way—but is cautiously accepted.

Dean can feel Cas turning the jumble of emotions over, sifting through them, and though he tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter, he finds himself anxious for his husband’s response. They’ve spent so much time out of alignment since the drama with Raphael began, and Dean…

Dean doesn’t know how much longer he can handle it. It’s so _exhausting_.

Eventually, Cas’ posture loosens, and he curls his wings forward to slide along Dean’s. It’s so reassuring that Dean could nearly cry.

And then Cas says, “Dean, I’m not sure I follow. I agree that Gabriel could have handled things better, but we are only acting like we are because we want to ensure you stay safe. Is that something you can fault us for?”

Suddenly, the hand Cas has over his heart becomes a suffocating weight. Dean pushes it away, and haphazardly flaps his wings to knock away the black feathers that encroach on them.

Cas flinches.

Dean pretends he doesn’t see it, and clings to his argument with everything he has. “That’s exactly the goddamn problem, Cas! Everyone’s so damn focused on my safety, but you’re not listening to _me_. Ever since this pregnancy bullshit started, you’ve been treating me like I need a babysitter, and I’m sick of it. I’ve been looking out for myself my whole life and killing monsters since I was nine. I’m not some delicate fucking flower all of a sudden, no matter what you and Gabe want to think.”

The more Dean says, the more Cas shrinks in on himself, his wings curling tight around his hunched shoulders. “This doesn’t just relate to your pregnancy,” he tries to object, though judging by the quiet way he says it, Dean suspects that he already knows the counter-argument won’t work. “I want _you_ to stay safe as a result of all of this, and if Raphael or Michael or any number of other foes were to get their hands on you—”

“No,” Dean interrupts, his upper lip curling into a faint snarl. “No, don’t give me that shit. Hiding me away isn’t any kind of solution. If I wasn’t under house arrest, I wouldn’t have had to sneak outside when no one was around just to get a breath of fresh air. I would’ve been careful, not desperate, and Michael’s angel might not have gotten the drop on me. Or, hell, maybe I wouldn’t have even been here in the place they had their eyes on to begin with!”

Cas sighs, but doesn’t object. He’s resigned to it now, Dean can tell. Even if he doesn’t fully agree—which Dean didn’t expect, because his mate is a stubborn son of a bitch sometimes—there’s no way he doesn’t see Dean’s logic.

So Dean seizes the opening that he sees, and presses the issue just a little bit more. Urges it in the right direction.

“Not being able to leave was better when you were here with me,” he starts off by conceding. He reaches out to take one of Cas’ hands in his own to emphasize the point, which earns him his husband’s full attention. “But you can’t stay here full time with everything else that’s going on. I know I can’t ask that while Gabe needs you. But I can’t just sit around in this tiny house while everyone else continues on as normal, either. I’ll lose my mind, Cas.”

Cas turns his hand beneath Dean’s so that their palms slide together and gently laces their fingers together. There’s still a sadness in his eyes that makes Dean ache, but when his lips pull up into a small smile, Dean doesn’t even think before mirroring it.

“I… see your point,” Cas says, and Dean’s relief bursts from him in an audible rush of air. Cas’ smile grows just a little bit wider. “I do, Dean. I’m beginning to understand better than I had. And I’m sorry for making you feel this way. I’m sorry for… for making you feel as if you needed to leave us to make this point. I’m sorry I didn’t listen from the start.”

Dean’s smile slips. “Cas…”

The angel shakes his head. “No, you’re right. No matter our intentions, we have been treating you differently since we discovered the fledgling. I cannot say that I don’t still fear for your safety, but I also know what you are capable of in your own right, and underestimating your ability to defend yourself was a mistake on my part. Furthermore, I didn’t consider just how miserable it would be for you to be trapped solely within this house. This place may be safe, but that doesn’t mean leaving you here indefinitely is in any way ideal.”

“Yeah, it _really_ isn’t.” Overall, though, Dean gets what Cas is saying, and he’s incredibly grateful that they’re finally reaching this point. As long as they both understand what caused Dean to break and make his bid for freedom, they should be able to avoid a repeat.

Likely picking that thought directly out of Dean’s head, Cas frowns. “Dean… I don’t know what we can do differently going forward. Michael and Raphael are both aware of you now, and Raphael likely has at least some of Hell on her side. And now with this Knight of Hell on the loose, and whatever problems Henry is likely to be bringing with him…”

Now it’s Dean’s turn to sigh. “Yeah. Yeah, I know. But I just.” He tugs on Cas’ hand to encourage him to move closer, then gives into his own growing need for closeness and leans in until his forehead is resting on his husband’s shoulder. For a brief moment, Cas goes stiff—but once he accepts and relaxes into the contact, he wraps Dean up in his wings and arms, and holds him firmly against his chest.

Dean sags into it, and all at once remembers just how physically tired he is. He soaks in the comfort that Cas is offering, and for the span of a few minutes, lets their conversation slip to the wayside. Cas starts rubbing his hand up and down in the space between the bases of Dean’s wings, which almost has Dean ditching the subject entirely, but the need to get them to an actual conclusion spurs him onward.

He turns his face further into Cas’ neck, breathing him in. “We’re gonna have to figure out something better than what we’ve been doing so far.”

He feels Cas nod against the top of his head. “We do. But we can determine what that may be tomorrow. We _will_ get there, I promise you.”

It’s Dean’s turn to nod, then. He scoots in slightly closer to Cas, making himself more comfortable while propped up against his angel, and finally lets himself start to drift off toward sleep. Wrapped up in Cas as he is, home and safe and surrounded by his mate’s scent, it’s so wonderfully easy to do.

When he opens his eyes next, the dimmed light coming in through the blinds over the window gives away the fact that evening has fallen. At some point, too, Cas shifted them down to be laying in the bed instead of remaining propped upright, as well as redressed them both in pajamas. Dean doesn’t know if he’s ever been quite so pleased to wake up on Cas’ chest as he is in that moment.

He’s only awake for a few moments before Cas brushes his wings along Dean’s. He doesn’t say anything at first, lets Dean wake up in his own time, but eventually asks, “Are you feeling better?”

Dean turns his face into the soft t-shirt Cas is wearing and nods, uncaring for the fact that he probably looks like a kid for doing it. His mind is lighter, refreshed, and at least for the moment, his shoulders no longer feel like they’re carrying the weight of the world. It doesn’t feel like he just had some of the worst days of his life, complete with a runaway attempt and a botched hunt. He almost feels _good_.

He hopes to god that acknowledging it won’t be jinxing anything.

Cas runs his fingers through Dean’s hair, fond amusement coloring his side of their bond. “Good. I’m glad.”

They’re open enough to each other right now that they don’t need any more words than that. It’s easy. Calm. It’s exactly how Dean missed it being, for those few months between the mess with Azazel and the breaking of the drama with Raphael.

A few minutes later, the spell is broken by the sound of Cas’ phone ringing with a text alert. Dean frowns and looks up just in time to see him typing out a quick response; he prods at his husband’s mind, curious as to who he could be texting, but doesn’t get an answer.

It only takes a few seconds for that answer to present itself anyway, however. A set of footsteps thud loudly down the hallway, and then their door is opened. Dean pushes himself to sit upright just in time for Sam’s head to appear around the edge of the door. And if he weren’t already fully awake, well. The look on Sam’s face makes sure that job is done.

“Sam? What’s going on, did something happen?”

Sam shakes his head. His expression is still twisted, confusion and concern mixed with… hope? Dean can’t quite read it, and that worries him. He exchanges a quick look with Cas, who, thankfully, looks just as confused as Dean feels.

And then Sam says, “You guys up for a field trip to Kansas?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very little mpreg this chapter! Some references to the fact that Dean is pregnant, but nothing over the top or explicit. :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Abaddon will not be a threat for long,” Henry interrupts, prompting Cas’ grace to pulse with mild irritation. Dean has to bite his lip to hold back a smile. “The Order will help us. They can stop her.” 
> 
> He had straightened up when he spoke, but his shoulders slump back down almost immediately, his gaze cutting toward Sam. He corrects himself, “If… they still stand, that is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sup, dudes! 
> 
> Want a new chapter? Because here's a new chapter! With some new developments that definitely everyone hasn't already guessed is coming, no sir. It's a complete surprise. Totally out of left field. Yep. No predictability whatsoever. 
> 
> A side note, though: a couple months ago, while this fic was in its drought, I made something of a retcon to For Every Alpha. Go over there and check out [Chapter 21](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4539030/chapters/15526573#workskin) if you want some new content (explained in the beginning note), or otherwise you can read my (temporary) author's note which has been added to the end of FEA for a similar explanation. I meant to point out this added stuff when I post chapter 9, but I... forgot. Clearly. But this is 1.3k of new stuff, and while it's not completely pivotal, _I_ like it, and I hope you guys will, too.  <3 
> 
> But anyways. I think that's all I have to say, so without further ado... 
> 
> Enjoy. <3

Despite Sam’s burning desire to drop everything and fly off to Kansas right at that very moment, Dean and Cas agree that they need a bit more convincing before blindly following along. Just by the skepticism emanating from Cas’ side of the bond alone, Dean knows that they’re on the same page.

Sam, unsurprisingly, is less than thrilled by Dean’s answering grunt of, “Not really,” after he asks if they want to take a field trip to Kansas, but he is also quick to urge the couple out of bed and downstairs to rejoin the debrief which is apparently still going on. When they walk into the kitchen, Dean feels woefully underprepared, sleep still weighing on his eyelids, but at least he and Cas are dressed; at least with clean clothes on, he can pretend to be a bit more assembled than he actually feels.

Although, from the way Henry raises his eyebrows and stares at the two of them when they make their first appearance in several hours, Dean almost starts to wonder if that small bit of mental stability is worth it. He’s no more concerned with Henry’s opinions than he was when he first introduced him to Cas, but there’s some niggling voice in the back of his mind that just leaves him feeling… off. Not enough to truly bother him, but certainly enough to make him twitch.

He’s never had a grandfather before, but he’s pretty sure that rolling out of bed with your spouse and showing up with sleep-mussed hair and each other’s (read: Dean’s) clothes on isn’t perfect etiquette.

Or maybe it’s the fact that he knows Henry is at least somewhat surprised by Cas’ existence, which, he _is_ , considering he’d claimed that angels don’t interact with humans. So what must the guy be thinking now that he can see just how non-angelic Cas can be? How human, how Dean-like?

Jesus, Dean really needs to get his paranoia under control.

He wills down the rising warmth in his cheeks and ignores the weight of Henry’s attention as he drops into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, taking the seat beside Jess as his own. Cas takes up a post over Dean’s shoulder, a hand on the back of his mate’s chair, while Sam simply opts to stand with a hip propped against the side of the table, his arms crossed over his chest.

Once he actually gets over himself and takes a good look at Henry, too, Dean can’t help but notice how exhausted the man looks. The blue suit jacket still hanging around his shoulders may as well be imbued with the weight of the world, for all that it seems to be weighing him down. There are bags beneath his eyes and a half-empty coffee cup being cradled in his hands, but what effect the latter may have had, Dean has no idea. He has a brief, but overwhelming urge to offer him more. A stronger brew, maybe.

But that’s nothing short of ridiculous, so Dean clears his throat and shifts his gaze upward to meet Sam’s eyes. “Where’s Bobby?”

It’s Jess who answers him, though. “He went out to start working on getting more perimeter defenses up, in case this Knight of Hell decides to come after Henry. He was on the phone with Ash and Ellen before he left, trying to get their help in setting up some kind of demon alarm system for all of Sioux Falls. Not sure how it’ll work out, but…” She lifts a shoulder in a shrug.

Cas hums in consideration. “That may not be a bad idea. I’ll be sure to lend what help I can when he returns. We are going to need any and every advantage against—”

“Abaddon will not be a threat for long,” Henry interrupts, prompting Cas’ grace to pulse with mild irritation. Dean has to bite his lip to hold back a smile. “The Order will help us. They can stop her.”

He had straightened up when he spoke, but his shoulders slump back down almost immediately, his gaze cutting toward Sam. He corrects himself, “If… they still stand, that is.”

Dean looks toward his brother just in time to see him wince. “Order?” he asks, prompting for an explanation. Sam is quick to jump to it, his earlier excitement returning to him with the opportunity. 

Henry, for once, doesn’t speak up.

As Sam tells it, the Men of Letters are a hunting-adjacent organization dating back hundreds if not thousands of years, in some form or another. They’re more intellectuals than fighters (which explains Henry’s dumb, ugly suit, Dean thinks), and have apparently had a lot of fingers in a lot of pies in the time since they were assembled.

“So like monster killing Illuminati,” Dean says, leaning back in his chair. Jess gives him an unimpressed look. “And you expect us to believe that that’s a real thing?”

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam says back with a roll of his eyes. Not that either he or Jess object to his Illuminati comparison. He finally sits himself at the table, and shuffles through some of the books and paper scraps which are scattered across it. He eventually comes up with a penciled sketch on a piece of lined notebook paper, which he waves in Dean and Cas’ direction. “See this? This is their logo. Henry drew it for us. But get this.”

Sam sits forward and blindly passes his sketched logo to Dean, already busy digging through the mound of books in front of him. He cycles through a number of them, pointing out various illustrations on the open pages of each. “Look. It’s here, here, _here_ —this symbol is everywhere, guys. It checks out.”

Cas shifts forward, leaning over the table to get a better look at Sam’s examples. “If they are so influential, why have we not known of their existence before now?”

Sam pulls a face and, again, glances toward Henry. “We, uh… don’t know. We’re kinda not sure what happened. But that’s part of why we need to go to Kansas. There might be some answers, there.”

Dean drums his fingers against the table. “Why Kansas?”

Finally, Henry sighs. “The Order is headquartered there. Whoever is running this current generation of members will be able to help us.”

Sam looks tempted to object, but he says nothing. A few moments of awkward silence wash over the room, none of its occupants seeming to know what to say next.

It’s Cas who ultimately speaks up. “I suppose we should go, then. Find what we can. If there is truly someone who can help us, then it would be worth our effort.”

“Yes. Yes, I should hope so.” Henry nods and gets to his feet, hands automatically lifting to fuss with his tie. “I will be ready to leave whenever you are. But first, Sam—will you please show me to the restroom? I would like to freshen myself up.”

“Oh. Um.” Sam gets back up from his own chair, and nods in the direction of the hallway. “Down this way.”

Henry follows Sam out of the room. The moment they’re gone, Jess leans toward Dean, a determined look in her eyes. “Dean, I know Sam’s more hopeful about this than I am,” she whispers, “but there’s no way it’s going to go like Henry thinks it will. We’ve been researching this for hours, looking into every possible angle we can, and we didn’t find _anything_. Not dating any later than the late fifties, anyway. Every member he could name is dead, too, and that is _not_ promising.”

Dean grimaces. “That bad, huh?”

“Pretty much.”

“Why are we going out there, then?”

Jess huffs and makes a helpless gesture. “I don’t know. Whatever Henry thinks is out there, it might still be interesting. It can’t hurt to look into it. But just—”

A set of footsteps starts to come back down the hallway and Jess looks toward the door, like she’s afraid of being caught ratting on the hopes and dreams of her boyfriend and his time-traveling grandfather. She uses her last few seconds to hurriedly say to Dean and Cas, “Just don’t get your hopes up too high.”

And then Sam reenters the room, and Jess settles back into her seat like she’d never moved to begin with. Sam, oblivious to the fact that he just walked in on a conversation separate from the one he left, heaves a sigh and puts his hands on his hips.

“I think this could be interesting, guys,” he says, almost exactly like Jess had. “Henry may have some gaps in his knowledge, but if even half of what he _does_ know turns out to be true, I think we could have something great on our hands. Because this is exactly what we need for the fight against Raphael, right? More people, better resources?”

Dean shakes his head. “Seems a bit too good to be true, Sammy. Let’s get out there and see what we can see before we get our hopes up too high, alright?”

Sam doesn’t seem thrilled by Dean’s skepticism, but he begrudgingly agrees, “Yeah, we’ll see how it goes.”

When Henry returns from the bathroom, he doesn’t look very ‘freshened up’. In fact, he somehow looks more haggard than he had when he left—but if nothing else, he at least holds himself upright, with squared shoulders and a raised chin. There’s only so much it can do for his overall disposition, but Dean has to give him credit for trying.

Because, well. He’s _trying_.

Henry glances wearily around the kitchen. “Shall we leave? It will take us several hours to reach Lebanon, so it would be in our best interest to—”

“Oh, we’re not driving, pal,” Dean interrupts. Henry blinks at him, and in turn, Dean flashes him a tight smile. As he gets up from the table, he preemptively explains, “We don’t need to be flaunting ourselves out where Abaddon can reach us. Driving would be stupid. Cas and I can get us there, it’ll be safer and faster.”

By which he of course means, _Cas_ can get them there, because there’s no way in hell Dean trusts his own abilities enough to find his way to Kansas on his own. Probably best not to jump into _flying between states_ when he’s still mostly tapped out on _flying between rooms of Bobby’s house_.

Henry doesn’t need that detail, though. Dean can keep his mediocrity to himself, thank you very much.

Dean turns to Cas for confirmation of his out-of-the-air plan and finds that his angel is already beaming at him. Dean, reading the sappy expression for what it is, smiles, scoffs, and turns back away.

Cas pushes his pride across their bond anyway, just to be exceedingly clear how he feels about how responsible Dean is being. Given how reckless he’s been lately, though, Dean can’t really blame him. Still, he teasingly flicks Cas in response, the warmth in his chest growing.

He’s really glad he’s home.

Henry glances at Sam and Jess, then raises a skeptical eyebrow in Dean’s direction. “Your… mate, I believe you called him. He can take us to the coordinates I have, just as he brought us here?”

“I believe I can handle it,” Cas says, with no shortage of snark. Apparently, he doesn’t like being talked around.

(Out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Jess fight to stifle a laugh, turning and coughing into her hand in an attempt to be discreet.)

Cas moves forward, a possessive hand on Dean’s shoulder as he not-so-subtly takes the reins on the conversation. “We should not be out for more than a few hours at most, and we will take every precaution imaginable for even that time. Abaddon is not our only concern, and I will not allow any member of this family to be at-risk. Am I understood?”

Henry nods, looking a bit paler than he had a few moments previously.

Sam clears his throat. “Great, looks like everything’s settled, then. We ready? Jess?”

Jess waves a hand. “You guys go ahead and go, I’ll wait here for Bobby. No use giving the old man a heart attack when he comes back in and finds an empty house.”

Sam purses his lips. “Good point.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

Cas asks Henry, “Where are we going?”

“Oh, ah—” Henry reaches for his inner breast pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. It unfolds to reveal a set of hastily scribbled coordinates, and a number of bloody smudges.

Bloody smudges which, by silent agreement, no one chooses to comment on.

Cas squints at the coordinates, probably committing the numbers to memory, then dips his chin in a nod. Henry returns the paper to his pocket, and Cas takes a second to pull Dean around to face him.

“Do you want me to fly you,” he asks softly, “or do you want to try to follow me? Are you up for it?”

The question catches Dean off guard, and he has to take a moment to consider it. He had assumed that Cas would just take them all, but… Well. What better way to get himself used to flying longer distances than actually flying longer distances? If he has Cas as a guide, he’s sure he can manage it.

Probably.

Hopefully.

He takes a deep breath to steel himself. “Yeah. Yeah, I can follow you. No harm in trying.”

Cas beams at him once more. “Alright, then. Try to stay close to me.”

He puts a hand on both Sam and Henry’s shoulders, and then they’re off toward Kansas.

 

~

 

As it turns out, following Cas through the fabric of reality isn’t quite as easy as Dean had hoped. He holds onto his husband’s grace as best he can, but his wings aren’t as strong as Cas’ are, so he falls slightly behind. He still makes it to Lebanon, because of course he does, he isn’t a _quitter_ , but admittedly… He does land a hundred yards off from Cas, Sam, and Henry.

And a few seconds later than Cas, too.  

And he does also immediately crash to his knees in the middle of the road, his vision swimming and stomach lurching like it used to the first few times he flew with Cas. He plants his palms on the cement in an effort to ground himself, wings trembling as they curl around his shoulders. He distantly recognizes Cas’ panic, and then his husband is there, a steadying hand between his shoulder blades as grace sweeps across soul in search of an explanation.

“How do you feel?” Cas asks, his voice as frantic as his grace. “What happened? Are you in pain? Your grace feels like it’s worn down, but that doesn’t make any sense.”

All at once, Dean remembers the incident from his vampire hunt, when his grace had burst outward to stop the final few members of the nest from hurting him. If his grace is in any way depleted, that would be the cause.

And since he’d rather not have to explain that mess to Cas, he takes a deep breath to steady himself, and carefully pushes up to his feet. “It’s just been a crazy couple of weeks,” he deflects, gripping Cas’ shoulder for support once he’s upright. “And getting here was trickier than I’d been expecting. But I’m fine. I’ll get better, just need some more practice.”

Cas doesn’t seem thrilled with that answer, but before he can do anything more than frown at Dean, another voice draws both of their attention.

“What… What _are_ you?”

Dean goes utterly still, panic gripping him. His hand tightens on Cas’ shoulder as he turns toward his grandfather. The question is one he feels a deep-rooted need to avoid ( _what is he?_ ), so he deflects with as much bravado as he can muster, “This isn’t gonna be a problem, is it?”

Henry’s eyes are wide as they sweep across Dean’s wings, and his jaw may as well be on the ground. If he heard Dean’s challenge, he doesn’t give any indication of it; in fact, it isn’t until Cas’ wings also become visible—for the sake of curling around Dean and partially hiding him from view—that Henry seems to get over his initial shock and come back to himself.

“Are you a nephilim?” he asks, though the awe in his voice makes him sound so sure, Dean doesn’t really know why it’s still phrased as a question. Henry stares at Cas’ wings now, too, and no doubt notices the shared, dappled colors between the two sets. “That would certainly explain why an angel took you as a mate. Are you the omega?”

Dean bristles at Henry’s tone. He can’t say he likes that his grandfather was able to identify that he’s the omega of the pair, especially when Dean himself feels like he still hardly knows what the hell that means half the time, and the added implication that he’s only with Cas because there was something special about him only adds insult to injury. There’s a knot in his stomach and he has no idea where to start with this.

Cas, though, ever the perfect husband, heaves a put-upon sigh and handles it on his own. “Dean is not a nephilim. His mother was human. His angelic traits come from our bond, but any details beyond that are not important at this point in time. Sam.” Sam, who had been looking much too amused by Henry’s probing questions, stands up a bit straighter in time for Cas to instruct, “Work with Henry and find out where we are meant to be going. I can use my grace to suppress our presence here for a short while, but I would still prefer we not remain exposed for longer than is necessary.”

“Yeah, we can figure this out,” Sam is quick to promise. He takes Henry by the shoulder and starts to lead him away—much to the other man’s chagrin, if his pout is anything to go by. The two move away to start conferring, leaving Cas to once again focus on Dean and Dean alone.

“Your grace _is_ something we are going to discuss, Dean,” the angel promises as if Henry had never interrupted him, his voice pitched low and just dangerous enough to make Dean wince. “Your health and safety is not an issue I am going to let slide, no matter how resistant you may be to serious discussions.”

“Just call out all of my issues, why don’t you,” Dean grumbles. He doesn’t try to fight it, though. He knows damn well he doesn’t have a leg to stand on, not with this.

He takes a moment to roll out his shoulders and focus on putting away his wings. It takes more effort than it probably should, but once the limbs are hidden from sight, he feels at least moderately more put together. Cas’ wings brush across him one final time, a soothing gesture which undercuts his irritation over the grace issue, and then they also vanish, leaving just the two of them. Normal, with nothing to warrant any undue staring from Henry or anyone else who may pass them by.

Not, of course, that Dean actually expects anyone to pass them. They may be standing on a two-lane road, but if this is Lebanon, well… Lebanon doesn’t seem to be much. He starts walking in the opposite direction of Sam and Henry, trying to see what he can see and, admittedly, that’s not a whole lot. The land on either side of the road is overgrown, and aside from a large, imposing building that looks like an abandoned power plant or something of the sort, there are no immediate signs of life. Much farther off to the north, Dean can just make out a cross street which he _thinks_ he sees a car pass over, but it’s there and gone again in a flash; wherever the bulk of this town actually is, Dean has no idea.

He turns his face halfway back toward Cas, drifting behind him. “How many people live in Lebanon?”

However it is that Cas finds the answer, it only takes him a handful of seconds to calculate. “A few hundred at most. It’s a very stable population, probably unlikely to change much over time.”

Dean turns the rest of the way toward him, then, an eyebrow raising. “Unlikely to change enough that there could be some old cult members hiding out here, still? Maybe Henry’s right about this?”

Cas’ lips press thin. “I suppose we’ll find out.”

They wander a bit further, Dean moving with no set goal, and Cas, clearly, content to simply follow him. A glance back the way they came shows Sam and Henry bent over something and literally scratching their heads; Dean decides to leave them to it, confident that they’ll speak up when they have something to report. In the meantime, the power plant seems interesting enough, and Dean sees nothing better to do with their time than investigate it.

Despite the distance between them and Henry, Dean still practically whispers when he says to his husband, “You don’t think this old crumbling hunk of junk is what we’re looking for, do you?”

Cas folds his arms across his chest and squints up at the unattractive cement structure in front of them. “It may be a bit… ostentatious, for a secret group like the one Henry has described. Though, the coordinates Henry had were for this general area…”

“Ostentatious is one word for it,” Dean agrees. Still, it seems worth investigating, so Dean starts forward with the intention of walking up the hill the building is situated on to check its perimeter. Just as they approach the base, however, something just off to the side of the road catches his eye, and he stops in place.

“Hey, Cas. Where would you rank an unmarked door in the ground on the list of ostentatious cult hideouts?”

 

~

 

Henry draws a small, plain-looking box out of his pocket, which then unfolds to reveal a key. A key which, of course, fits perfectly into the lock set in the door. When the lock is turned, a thin thread of golden light races around the edge of the door, and then it swings open to admit them.

The four of them exchange a wary look. Henry enters first, his shoulders squared. Cas lets his blade fall into his palm before he follows, his other hand securely held in Dean’s. Sam is the last to step over the threshold, and when he does, the door swings back closed with a resounding _thud_ , plunging them into complete darkness.

Dean can still see well enough to get by, thanks to his angel-boosted eyes, so he can tell that the door they entered through has put them through a small hallway, with another door a few feet away. Henry already had it open when the outer door closed, so they all carefully hedge through it. They’re on a ledge, and Dean can faintly make out a staircase to their right, and an open room down below them.

“Now what?” Henry asks, his hands on the iron railing that makes up the edge of their vantage point to nothing.

“Um—” Sam starts rustling through his pockets. “We can use my phone as a flashlight, for what good it’ll do—”

“Hold on,” Cas cuts him off. He pulls Dean along the raised walkway by their joined hands, every one of their footsteps against the metal floor clanging loudly through the dark space. At the end of the walkway, there’s a table and a pair of arm chairs, an abandoned and dust-covered chess game, a set of mugs. Dean frowns at the sight, but Cas sees something else. He lets go of Dean’s hand in favor of opening a metal case set in the wall. When Dean sees what he’s doing, he grins.

“Cas, you clever son of a bitch.”

The angel smirks over his shoulder, then switches on the first of the two breakers.

Above and below them, auxiliary lights and aged light bulbs flicker on. It lights up the entryway and the room below, illuminating some dusty radios, a switchboard, table with a lit map of the world, and other old-as-hell appliances Dean doesn’t bother to identify.

Cas flips the second switch, and the building fully comes to life.

“Holy shit,” Sam breathes, staring down into the room beneath them like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. He doesn’t hesitate before going for the stairs, all caution thrown to the wind. Henry follows, though, so after a moment, so do Dean and Cas.

On the other side of the entrance chamber is an archway leading to a large library, with broad, polished wood tables lined up down the center, and gilded books set into every wall. There are other rooms leading off of that one, too, hallways leading to god knows what else. Even just standing in the entrance of the library, the place feels vast.

Dean takes a deep breath.

“Fellas, I think we might’ve just found the Batcave.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the Men of Letters disappeared, they apparently left quite a bit in their wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well hello there! 
> 
> In case you guys haven't noticed, I have a really terrible tendency to bite off more than I can chew, and take on more projects than I should. Why? Because when it comes to writing, I'm a damn masochist. With no self-control. And my latest method of making myself is sort of just... making myself write, instead of constantly _thinking_ about writing. 
> 
> Which means... I've started another ongoing fic! Huzzah! 
> 
> To anyone over here who hasn't checked it out yet, [As the World Falls Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16165250/chapters/37770947) features Fae king Cas and half-Fae Dean and Sam, with a side of assassination attempts and cultural misunderstandings. It's good fun! Give it a read, maybe?
> 
>  
> 
> And of course, enjoy! <3 
> 
>  
> 
> ~~And enjoy the bubble of happiness that's here while it lasts. ;)~~
> 
>  
> 
> (mpreg note at the end)

When the Men of Letters disappeared, they apparently left quite a bit in their wake.

The facility—which Dean is genuinely convinced is the real-life version of the Batcave, although Henry calls it a _bunker_ —is massive. Beyond the room with the war table and the library, there is a full-sized kitchen, a garage filled with cars suited to the Men of Letters’ final era (which is to say, _amazing_ cars), several storage rooms filled with god-knows-what, more bathrooms than they could ever need, and dozens of bedrooms.

It’s a lot.

And Dean is already in love.

“This place is… not what I was expecting,” Jess says as she strolls the length of the library. She drags the pads of her fingers across the top of one of the tables, then skips up to the next one in the row to pull out the chair across from Dean’s and drop into it. Even once she has sat, though, her eyes don’t stop moving, shifting continuously from one detail to the next as she takes in everything the bunker has to offer.

Dean can’t say he blames her. He did the same thing, of course, even before Cas had left to go pick her and Bobby up. The place has an industrial sort of feel to it, in a lot of ways, but despite that, it still manages to seem… homey.

Jess’ gaze finally settles on Dean. “And it’s safe? For sure? I trust that Cas checked, but—”

“One hundred percent safe,” Dean confirms, unable to stop himself from grinning as he does. He knocks his knuckles against the table. “Everything in this place is legit. Wards built into every inch of it, unbreakable. Wasn’t built to keep angels out, granted, but Cas already fixed that. This joint now has everything that Bobby’s house had, but to the max.”

“Jesus, that’s so hard to wrap my head around.” Jess reaches up to fuss with her hair, gathering it up and pulling it over one of her shoulders. “I mean, before I found out Sam was a hunter, I was used to living with a few basic repellants and some silver jewelry, so Bobby’s house already felt like a damn fortress. But this place…” She shakes her head. “This place hardly feels real.”

Dean has to smile at that. “Yeah, I know. I’m really looking forward to getting used to it.”

Jess raises an eyebrow. “So we’re staying?”

“Don’t see why not.”

“For how long? Indefinitely?”

Dean shrugs. “Dunno. It’s safe from every kind of monster, it’s demon-proof and angel-proof where it counts, and it’s a hell of a lot bigger than Bobby’s house. And it’s not personal to us, so no one should know we’re here. Won’t be painting a permanent target on Bobby or Sioux Falls. And, as long as Henry’s cult doesn’t need it any time soon…”

And they _won’t_ , Dean feels comfortable deciding. Sam had found a log in one of the bunker’s aging defense system which tracked every time the front door was opened, and considering that the last entry had been within a few weeks of Henry’s jump through time…

They might not know exactly what happened to the Men of Letters, but there is a clear conclusion to be drawn nonetheless. Dean has accepted that, and he knows that Cas, at least, shares his opinion.

It’s Sam and Henry who are fighting facts. Dean can’t blame Henry for not wanting to believe that all of his friends and colleagues are dead, of course, so he hasn’t said a word against the man’s frantic (and ongoing) efforts to dig an explanation out of the bunker’s logs. Sam, though—

Maybe Sam is just being sympathetic to Henry’s plight, but he seems to carry some genuine desperation of his own while he works at their grandfather’s side, and _that_ is just depressing.

So Dean is resolutely ignoring that possibility, and focusing solely on the positives.

When he comes back out of his thoughts, he finds Jess smiling at him.

Dean immediately feels self-conscious, and his cheeks warm. “What’s that look for?”

“Nothing,” Jess replies. Her smile stays firmly in place. “Just… It’s good to see you like this. Happy, positive. It’s been a while.”

Dean’s blush deepens, but he finds himself smiling along despite himself. “Yeah, yeah, shut up.”

They lapse into silence for a few minutes, then, each of them appreciating the moment of calm for what it is. The library is completely quiet save for the distant rumble of the air recycling system, and the sound of a single door being closed, somewhere far off down the hall. It feels like they’re sitting somewhere public, instead of in a private sanctuary. It’s nice. Relaxing.

Eventually, Jess breaks through the silence to say, “I like it here, too.”

Dean glances toward her, and sees that her smile has gone soft. He can tell that she means it; she looks as content as Dean feels. It warms him to the bunker even more.

The front entrance opens with a heavy clang, the sound of it resonating through the war room and up into the library. Dean looks expectantly in that direction, and a few moments later, Bobby walks in, a plastic bag hanging from his hand.

“Turns out that Lebanon doesn’t exactly have a lot to offer in the way of resources,” he says without any sort of introduction. He makes his way over to the table where Dean and Jess are sitting and drops his bag in front of them. “But that ain’t really a surprise. I bought a couple’a odd items from the convenience store so it didn’t just look like I was casing the joint, but we’ll have to go farther to stock up on actual necessities. It’ll be a full excursion.”

Jess pulls the bag open and starts poking through its contents. Dean sees a pack of matches, a few cans of beer, and a couple of other random items that are equally insignificant. It seems about right.

“Maybe we can do that tonight, then,” Jess says. She pushes the bag back away and looks up at Bobby. “You and I can make a run. At most it’ll take, what, a couple hours? If we go soon, we can probably pull it off. I have a couple hundred in cash.”

Dean’s eyebrows rise. “Uh. Why?”

Jess gives him a too-innocent shrug, and then Bobby hums in the back of his throat, depriving Dean of an answer.

“Might be a good idea. I’ll go whenever and wherever, so just say the word.” He turns his focus on Dean, then. “When’s your angel getting back?”

Dean frowns. He had been happy to pretend that Cas _wasn’t_ gone, but— “He should be back as soon as he manages to free Gabe up. I haven’t heard much from him, good or bad, so I can only assume he’s making progress. Hopefully he’ll be back soon-ish. Why?”

Bobby gives him a calculating look. “Soon-ish enough that we don’t have to worry about leaving you unattended if we go out for supplies?”

“ _Hey_.” Dean scowls, his cheeks turning pink. “I had _one_ meltdown, alright, I’m not a damn flight risk. And Sam’s not going anywhere, anyway. I’m not gonna be alone.”

Although he doesn’t look convinced, Bobby nods. “Whatever you say, boy. Just don’t make all of us regret this.”

“Oh, cut him some slack,” Jess chimes in. “His tantrum was just a _little bit_ overdramatic, and only _mostly_ scared us half to death—”

“Alright, alright, I get it.” Dean pushes up from his chair, smiling despite himself; Jess’ grin is bright and undeniably contagious, even if it’s at his expense. “Fuck both of you. Go do your grocery shopping, jackasses.”

Jess snorts a laugh, so Dean flips her off over his shoulder as he walks out of the library. As he goes, he can hear her and Bobby shift into a legitimate conversation, likely about their supply run, so he doesn’t feel too bad about leaving.

Although he’s starting to form a loose outline of the bunker’s layout in his mind, Dean sets out to take another tour of the hallways anyway, intent on committing as much of it to memory as possible. If they’re going to stay—and it’s really looking like they are—then it’ll be important to know every route through the hallways, every way to an exit, every nook and cranny to potentially hunker down and defend. Mapping out safety information is hardwired into him, an urge he can’t fully ignore.

But of course, it’s also good to simply _know the bunker_. Know their new hideout. If it’s somewhere they’re going to be staying, then he needs to know what’s waiting at his fingertips, and where he can pass time. The gym, for example, is a good resource to have—even if Dean doesn’t foresee being able to use it for a while. The garage, too, holds a lot of promise. It’s not quite as useful as Bobby’s garage, but, well. _Nothing_ is as good as Bobby’s garage.

After he’s done some aimless wandering, Dean finds himself walking toward the bedrooms. They take up several hallways, making for enough space to house a small army, if need be. It’s such a sharp upgrade from what Dean is used to that it makes his head spin, but…

He can’t deny that it’s nice.

While all of the bedrooms look identical from the outside, each plain, wooden door the same as the next, Dean comes to a stop in front of one that is already beginning to feel familiar. When he had done his initial tours of the bedrooms, this one had stood out. It’s central, not too far off from the main path, and one of only a small handful that has an attached bathroom of its own, instead of being dependent on the locker room-style shower room located in the center of the residential wing.

Admittedly, the room is starting to feel familiar because he’s _making it_ familiar. His duffle bag from his trip to Cleveland sits at the foot of the bed, and up with the bunker-supplied pillows is Dean’s personal pillow, the case still discreetly stuffed with feathers and smelling strongly of Cas.

That last detail is probably most of the reason why the room feels in any way homey, but Dean isn’t too worried about the logical explanation. Maybe it’s because it already smells like his mate, maybe it’s because it’s four walls and a ceiling that are encased in fortified warding and hidden underground—who says it has to be one or the other? All that matters is, it’s safe, and comfortable, and overall, exactly what he needed.

Especially because the mattress is _memory foam_.

Dean groans aloud as he flops onto it. It’s the most comfortable bed he’s ever laid in in his life, he has no doubt, and thanks to a carefully-aimed burst of his own grace, the sheets are clean enough to get by. The rest of the room still needs to be dusted, but that will be a task for later. For now, he’s relaxing for the sake of relaxing; if he holds himself steady and stretches out his senses, he can hear a low murmur somewhere off in the bunker, Sam and Henry’s voices coming from at least a few hallways away. He can’t make out what they’re saying, but it serves as nice background sound regardless, and helps to lull Dean into a doze.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before, eventually, a rustle of wings pulls him back to reality. Dean blinks up at the ceiling, eyelids heavy. In his peripheral vision, he sees Cas step up to the side of the bed.

“Are you comfortable, love?” the angel says, soft and teasing. He reaches out to card his fingers through Dean’s hair, and lowers himself to sit beside Dean’s hip. “Because you certainly _look_ comfortable.”

Dean hums in answer, and turns his head up to press back into Cas’ hand. He says without missing a beat, “I’d be even more comfortable if you joined me, y’know.”

He feels Cas’ responding chuckle down to his bones. “I have no doubt about that. I think we’ll fit here together better than we ever did in our small room at Bobby’s.”

“Oh, absolutely. We’ll have to test it out pretty soon, here.” Dean pats his hand against the bed and flashes Cas a suggestive grin. “Break it in, if you will.”

Cas huffs a laugh. “Perhaps later. Right now, Gabriel would like to speak with you.”

Dean’s good mood disappears in an instant. He’s slow to sit up, and when he does, he can’t quite bring himself to meet his husband’s eyes. “Right. Uh. I guess you got him up to speed, then.”

Cas shifts in place, a telltale show of the nervousness that Dean can feel being kept from their bond. “Yes. I did.”

“And?”

“And… He has concerns, about Henry. And what this means for all of us. He is introducing himself to your grandfather right now, but he made it clear that he wants to talk to you, as well.”

“Great.” Dean scrubs his palms down his face, then abandons the comfort of his new bed and gets to his feet. He can feel Cas’ eyes on him all the while, so he finally gives in and turns to face him, arms folding defensively across his chest. “What should I be expecting from this, then? How pissed is he?”

“Dean, he isn’t…” Cas sighs heavily, then stands so that he’s level with Dean. The look in his eyes is so damn earnest that Dean can’t help but be pulled in by it, some of the tension leaving his shoulders just in time for Cas to lay a hand on his bicep. “He isn’t angry. Not in the way I think you’re expecting. So please, just—hear him out, alright?”

Dean blows out a long breath and resigns himself to his fate. “Yeah. Okay. I earned whatever’s coming my way, I know that.”

“It won’t be terrible,” Cas tries to reassure. “I already talked to him about most of the relevant points. It will be fine, I promise.”

Dean isn’t sure he believes that, but he keeps his objections to himself.

And he certainly isn’t subtle when he changes the subject, either.

“How are things in Heaven?”

Cas pulls a face. “Not great. Everyone is still on-edge, but Raphael is mostly keeping her warfare psychological, for the time being. She is still feigning innocence while demon incursions against Gabriel’s garrisons are happening more and more frequently. We can keep fighting them off, but since the connection between those incursions and Raphael’s plan is unclear, we may as well be fighting shadows.”

Dean’s heart leaps into his throat at the thought of _demon incursions_ , panic spiking through him. He knows Cas isn’t directly involved in that—he’s a commander, not a footsoldier, he shouldn’t ever be out in the open where he can be jumped—but it’s still a very real danger. It’s a _war_ , and if demons are involved, it’s going to be damn impossible to know what’s coming up next, at any given point in time. Dean learned that lesson well enough when they were trying to take down Azazel.

He can already see what Cas means about Raphael’s tactics being ‘psychological’.

Cas prods at Dean’s mind with his grace, reading his fears and soothing them with a gentle touch. “There’s nothing to worry about, beloved. Hell is more of a distraction than a threat. They’re disorganized, erratic. Raphael can’t fully control them, and it shows. We haven’t lost anyone to them, and I highly doubt that we will.”

Dean suspects that that isn’t something Cas can truly promise, but his optimism is contagious nonetheless. Dean nods and pushes his thanks into their bond.

The fact that Raphael is attempting to pull Hell into her schemes at all is far from ideal, but if Hell is as difficult to control as it sounds, then that works in their favor. Hopefully Raphael will stretch herself too thin by trying to wrangle them, and open up a weakness or two for Gabe to expose. If they can manage to expose her, they should be able to pull a win out of their asses.

Cas follows along with this train of thought, and beams with pride. “Exactly. All we have to do is wait her out, and we will get through this.”

Dean’s lips pull up into a lopsided grin. “Great. Fingers crossed she drops the ball soon, because I’m ready to be done with wars and get on with our lives. I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure being married and expecting is supposed to be more fun than it’s been so far.”

Cas’ scent turns sour with a quick, barely-there flash of guilt, but he picks up on Dean’s teasing tone and mirrors it with ease. “I will do everything in my power to make this more _fun_ for you as soon as we aren’t in danger. A fledgling is going to be a lot to prepare for, though. We’re going to have our hands full.”

“So be it,” Dean says with a shrug. He still has hesitations about everything fledgling related, but for right now—it’s not terrible to let those hesitations slide. He can pretend, for a few minutes. He finally lets his arms fall away from his chest in favor of draping them around Cas’ neck. “You know, we’re going to need a name for the little squirt.”

Cas sucks in a quick, sharp breath, and every damn bit of him lights up. For a brief second, his side of the bond turns to white noise.

Dean throws his head back and laughs, harder than he probably should. It’s only when his laughter dies down to giddy sort of giggle that he manages to gasp out, “You forgot about a _name_?”

“I, um...” Cas wets his lips. He looks sheepish, despite how much he’s clearly enjoying Dean’s amusement, his mouth pressed into a thin line while his eyes _shine_. “It had not yet crossed my mind, no. Admittedly, I’ve been more focused on the fact that there _is_ a fledgling than anything else.”

It’s a fair counterpoint, Dean has to admit, but it doesn’t make the turn in conversation any less hilarious. It doesn’t make Cas’ _shock_ any less hilarious. He’s been busy, Dean knows, and stressed beyond belief—and when Dean ran off, all he did was make that exponentially worse, as he remembers with a quick pang of guilt—but even still. _Dean_ knows the basics of having a kid.

And Cas is already beside himself just at the thought of giving it a _name_.

Dean resists the urge to laugh about it again because he will _not_ be a giggling thirteen-year-old girl, thank you very much, although it’s a very near thing. As it is, he dips forward and channels the bursting warmth in his chest into a kiss, showing Cas how much he loves him in the simplest way he knows.

Cas’ contribution is to make the kiss even gentler than Dean does, because he’s a sappy bastard like that, which means that the two of them end up simply standing there in their new bedroom, clinging to one another and trading soft kisses like nothing else in the world matters.

Which, of course, means that that is exactly when Gabe decides to show up.

“Well, glad to see that you two are back to being as disgusting as ever,” he says from the doorway, which in turn prompts Dean to groan in annoyance.

Reluctant though he is to stop kissing his husband, Dean turns on the archangel with a glare. “Can’t you just, like, not interrupt us for _once_? Come on, dude.”

Gabe flashes him a wicked grin. The expression doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “What can I say, Dean-o? I like to see that murderous glint in your eyes when I show up and ruin a good moment.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but he can already feel his irritation beginning to dull. Gabe seems muted, like he’s _acting_ instead of truly being himself. It worries Dean, and does more than enough to sober him.

“You talked to Henry?” Cas asks, which is good, because Dean doesn’t know what _he_ would have said, instead.

The archangel nods. “I did. Interesting guy, that Henry. And _much_ more respectful of who I am than anyone else in this family, I might add. But Cassie, we can compare notes on him later. In the meantime… Dean. Can we talk?”

Not wasting any time, then. Cool.

Dean’s stomach twists with a quick burst of nervousness, but he nods anyway. Cas promised him this wouldn’t be bad, and Gabriel really doesn’t seem to be angry with him, so… maybe it will turn out to be true.

So Dean extends an olive branch. “You seen the library yet?”

Gabe’s eyebrows rise. “I haven’t. Lead the way.”

**_I’ll be right here when you’re done_** , Cas tells him in his mind. Dean acknowledges him with a quick pulse of thanks, then steps around Gabe and starts off down the hallway.

They make their way to the library in silence. When they get there, Gabe takes a slow tour around the perimeter, studying the array of books that the library has on offer. Dean leans against one of the central tables and waits. He’s in no hurry to get on with this.

Gabe is still halfway across the library when he eventually speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

Dean’s gaze snaps toward him, and for a moment, he’s not sure he heard correctly. Because, Gabe? Sorry?

The silence between them grows heavier. Denser. Dean swallows.

“For?”

Gabe brushes his fingertips across a shelf of books, then heaves a sigh. “You know what for.” He finally turns and starts to shuffle toward Dean, his hands shoving deep into his pockets. “I was a dick. And I was taking my stress out on you, which I had no right to do. So. I’m sorry.”

There doesn’t seem to be anything lurking beneath the apology, any kind of ulterior motive. He seems to actually _mean it_. And he stares at Dean until that sinks in.

Dean lets out a shaky breath. “Okay.”

Gabe shakes his head. “No. Not okay. That’s what I’m trying to _say_ , kid. You don’t deserve to be yelled at, or blamed, or—or anything like that, alright? You might be involved in this, but that doesn’t make any of it your fault.”

“Dunno about that.” Dean’s palms feel sweaty, so he scrubs them against his jeans and then crosses his arms over his chest for an excuse to tuck them away. “It was my fault that Michael and Raphael got the jump on us that morning. My fault they know I exist. My fault _again_ that Raphael has an excuse to be hunting us down, if she’s trying to find who killed Uriel—”

Once he’s going, Dean can’t seem to stop himself. It’s like something has taken hold of him, dark and twisted and dangerously sharp, and completely out of the blue. But even as he says it, he knows the truth of it.

So much of it is _his fault_.

There’s no need for Gabe to be apologizing. He should be mad. He has every right to be.

“Dean, hey!” Dean blinks, and is surprised to see how much closer Gabe suddenly is to him, the archangel’s hands on his shoulders. “This is _not_ your fault, do you hear me? Take a deep breath for me, and calm the fuck down.”

Dean does his best to do as he’s asked, but it’s easier said than done. He can hear his own heartbeat, and now that he’s thinking about all the messes he’s made, it’s just making him feel more guilty than he could have ever imagined. Especially because now that he’s reflecting on it with clear eyes, he sees that he fucked everything up, and then had the audacity to pin the blame elsewhere and then run from it.

His lower lip trembles. “Gabe—I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Hey, now.” Gabe’s expression softens, and before Dean knows it, the archangel is pulling him into a bone-crushing hug. Dean gives into it without resistance, no energy left in him to even be embarrassed. Gabe runs a hand across his back and soothes, “I’m sorry, you’re sorry—and everything’s okay, you got that? We’re gonna be okay. We’re gonna get through all this shit, and when we come out on the other side, you’ll see what I mean.”

Dean nods. It’s all he trusts himself to do, given the circumstances.

The mute agreement must be what Gabe was hoping to get, because Dean feels him relax, and for a moment, their hug gets impossibly tighter.

And then Gabe draws back, and Dean can breathe again.

“We’ll be okay, Dean,” Gabe reiterates. “We’ll win this, and we’ll do it together. I even have a plan. Did Castiel tell you?”

Dean suspects that any _plan_ will tie into what Cas already told him, about using Raphael’s attempts to control Hell to their advantage, but he still feels shaky and raw, and listening to Gabe talk about how easily their victory might come sounds like a nice opportunity to unwind. Come back to himself.

So he nods and settles himself in to listen. Gabe starts to talk without missing a beat, listing out strategies and details about Heaven and Hell and Raphael and every possible angle on it all. There’s a lot to it, but Dean finds himself strangely reassured by that fact. It helps the entire conversation feel more legitimate. Their apologies, Gabe’s optimism for the future, and maybe…

Maybe Dean can actually believe it all himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mpreg~ 
> 
> Dean and Cas have a brief conversation about the future, which includes mentions of their fledgling and their eventual need of a name for it.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://thursdays-fallen-angel.tumblr.com/). Come talk to me!


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